


Border Lines We Drew

by beastepic (arainthatbindshearts)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Assassination Attempt(s), Court Intrigues, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, hidden identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 141,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arainthatbindshearts/pseuds/beastepic
Summary: After Godfrey von Riegan, future leader of the Leicester Alliance, died during an unexpected beast attack, Duke Riegan made sure to find his long-lost grandson and bring him to the Alliance, in the process ruining House Gloucester's ambitions and Lorenz's future.Lorenz had met Claude von Riegan a total sum of three times before they were wed by the Goddess’s grace a cold, gray morning during which the wind never stopped howling, beating against the stained-glass windows of the cathedral presiding over the Eastern Church monastery.But, who is this stranger? Where did he come from? Why did nobody know of his existence until now?
Relationships: Background Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 172
Kudos: 409





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> _Oh roses, they don't mean a thing you don't understand  
>  But why don't we full on pretend?  
> Oh, won't you?  
> Before I closed my eyes I saw a moth in the sky  
> And I wish I could fly that high  
> Oh, don't you? _  
> \--Wild Roses by Of Monsters and Men__

Lorenz had met Claude von Riegan a total sum of three times before they were wed by the Goddess’s grace a cold, gray morning during which the wind never stopped howling, beating against the stained-glass windows of the cathedral presiding over the Eastern Church monastery. 

Weddings such as this—political, soulless, relevant to men and nations—used to be celebrated at the old Garrech Mach Monastery, where kings and queens from Faerghus and emperors and empresses from Adrestia could attend and gather and establish alliances among themselves, but it had closed off some ten years ago, when Fódlan’s peace was threatened by a terrible tragedy in the Kingdom of Faerghus that fractured the political stability of the continent. 

The Garrech Mach Monastery had also once served as an academy for young nobles. Lorenz's father always praised the decision of closing the academy, despising unnecessary fraternization that led, according to him, to betray one’s ideals and neglect the customs one had followed since birth. Lorenz had never been asked for his opinion on the matter. 

Crossing the massive doors that led to the cathedral and the altar, side by side with his future husband dressed in ochre and gold, Lorenz wondered, had the academy been open back when he was younger, would he have met Claude there? and avoided thus marrying a complete stranger who had appeared from nowhere to step all over the careful plans which Lorenz had tended to and watched grow? Not to mention the wretched ordeal the man had made of their wedding: refusing a proper courtship, insisting on closing their union as soon as the arrangements were done, slighting his fiancé on their engagement ball; not a single care for the season or the guests or the matching garments they were supposed to be wearing and weren’t: Lorenz in a delicate brocade doublet laced tightly to his body, etched in black and red, and a heavy, purple coat that fell to the heels of his boots, engraved with golden patterns looping into roses, thankfully thick enough to ward off the cold of the season; Claude, covered in warm colors that would have, maybe, suited a summer wedding, hadn’t even bothered to shave that tasteless beard; although, Lorenz supposed, that cravat was expertly tied, and his cape, a rich and elegant verdant linen, woven with lustrous fur in the inside, set off his eyes. 

But no, even if they had been classmates, or managed to exchange more than a handful of sentences each time they had met, a future in which Lorenz didn’t despise him—his artfully tousled hair, his debonair charm, the lying mouth and that smile he plastered over his face right before he uttered the most ridiculous babble—no, it simply could not be fathomed: Lorenz would carve a path through the lies and pretenses and find the truth of this mystery heir, and be rid of him for good. 

—

It hadn’t been like that, when Lorenz had first learned of his existence. 

As inopportune and sudden as Duke Riegan had announced his heir's existence, Lorenz recalled feeling slight relief—somewhere under the heavy amounts of suspicion—that such a salient house as that of von Riegan would not fall to extinction after all. The Alliance had suffered some time ago a similar blow—although of less importance, no less destabilizing—when the majority of House Daphnel defected to the Kingdom; the Roundtable could not afford to lose any more members. 

Such were things that they had been forced to permit the families who had in the past lost their position in the Roundtable to participate in the discussions about the Alliance’s new leadership. But despite the rise in numbers, the outcome had remained unanimous: it was House Gloucester—for its merits and wealth and seniority—to receive the honor of leading the Alliance from the dying hands of House Riegan. The two possible contestants hadn’t even raised objections—House Goneril not wanting to relinquish the honor of shielding the borders from their rival nation and House Edmund lacking an heir educated—or interested—in politics.

The Roundtable had received the news right before voting, and right from the mouth of Duke Riegan, who hadn’t left his sickroom since abdicating but managed to grace them with his presence and his words that day. The reactions had ranged from outraged—mainly Lorenz’s father—to calculating to speechless when the words of their previous leader resounded in the council room, the weeks spent bedridden clearly unhindering the Duke’s skills to command an entire room to silence. 

The decision inevitably postponed, a whirlpool of activities surrounded the days that followed: writing and receiving letters, gathering what little information could be had on the new Riegan heir, starting negotiations with the other houses to sway their vote—House Edmund and Ordelia remained loyal, but Goneril and Daphnel’s letters showed unwillingness to compromise until they laid their eyes on the heir. Yet that feverish week could not even begin to compare to the days that would follow Claude von Riegan’s introduction to the Roundtable. 

Derdriu had awaken that day enveloped in gossip and speculation and the first frost of the season that had glazed over the canals and frozen in place the little boats used to navigate the port city. Lorenz had left the Gloucester residence alone early that morning, planning to stop on his way to Leicester Castle at his favorite patisserie to buy the delicious crescent-moon pastries typical of the capital. He wouldn’t have minded his father’s company, but the sweets were for Marianne as a birthday gift, and his father had already mentioned more than once how a proposal of marriage would cement his position as future leader and secure the Gloucester line; he didn’t wish him to pester Marianne unnecessarily. 

The patisserie attracted thick crowds, but usually at a later time, not so close to dawn. That was when Lorenz preferred to make his purchases, not for the absence of customers, but because the fresh baked goods filled the air with their delicious scent, so strong that the sugar seemed to brush one’s lips and sweeten the palate. Sometimes, if the wind picked up when the bakers were still unloading the pastries, Lorenz could swear he saw a white mist of powdered sugar swirling in the air as if snow were falling. 

After paying for his purchase and exchanging pleasantries with the baker, Lorenz realized a young man had just arrived and was perusing the sweets. A foreigner, he gathered, noticing the brown leathers he wore faded by travel. His profile showed a pierced ear, barely hidden by his windswept brown hair, and a strong jaw shadowed by a sliver of beard. He looked up then, and their gazes met for the first time, surrounded by the warmth of the bakery; the stranger smiled, his teeth very white against his dark skin.

Lorenz cleared his throat. 

“May I help you decide on your purchase?” he asked. “I see you aren’t from the city, and I can say with confidence that I have tasted every pastry they offer here, in fact I can guarantee no other bakery compares.” 

Those green eyes scrutinized him for a short moment, the intense stare at odds with the easy grin. 

“That’s nice of you,” the man said, cocking his head. “Are those your favorites?” With a nod to the crescent-moon cakes Lorenz had bought. 

“These are certainly the most popular,” said Lorenz. “But I find the tea biscuits superior. No other bakery manages the perfect blend of coconut, vanilla, and cinnamon.” After a noncommittal humming in response, he added, “May ask after the occasion?” 

The man's lips twitched once, as if that smile could stretch any further, and then he said, “I have an interview with a possible employer later in the morning.” Lorenz wondered what his craft could be. He certainly seemed capable enough, broad-shouldered underneath the jacket, though not as tall as Lorenz; maybe a soldier. 

“I understand,” Lorenz said. “A first impression is everything.” The man coughed into his fist. “Then you cannot go wrong with the crescent-moon cakes.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The clerk was already loading a small tray with cakes, and Lorenz prepared to leave, but, “Say, aren’t those a tribute to the Alliance’s leader? His crest’s a crescent moon, right?” 

“That is House Riegan’s crest, indeed.” Lorenz hesitated, he wasn't late yet, but still preferred to arrive with ample time to spare, and gossiping was not proper of his station. Yet if the man was to work in the city he should be up to date with the circumstances. “But since Duke Riegan abdicated and his son Lord Godfrey was killed during a beast attack, it seems a new House is going to move into Leicester Castle.”

A low whistle. “No more heirs? That’s a shame.” 

“There does appear to be another heir,” Lorenz admitted. “But nobody had heard of him until recently. He is to arrive today.”

“That will explain the big crowds at the port. Sounds shady though.” Lorenz hummed low in his throat, appreciating his good sense. Shady indeed. “What now, then?” the man continued, “if this other House already was ready to step in? Two leaders?” 

Lorenz was startled into laughter, air clouding in front of him now that they were stepping outside. “Goddess no!” The man seemed not to take offense at his outburst; in fact, he hadn’t stopped smiling since they began speaking, his eyes bright. “There is no instance of joint leadership in the history of the Alliance. There will be an election, of course. And now, I must say farewell.” Bending his head to the stranger, he added, “It has been a pleasure. I wish you the best of luck in your job.” 

He received a bark of laughter in return, and, “Thanks. You too,” while the man saluted, two fingers touching his temple, and turned around. 

—

“May you have the loveliest of birthdays, Marianne!”

Her eyes lit up when Lorenz presented to her the box with the pastries, a soft blush tingling her cheeks. 

“Oh, but you shouldn’t have.” A shy smile hovered over her lips as she busied herself opening the box. “Thank you so much. These are so beautiful I don’t think I can eat them. Hilda, look!” She beckoned to the other girl who had just come through the council room doors accompanied by her brother. 

Hilda leaped on Marianne as soon as she spotted her, lifting her in the air with a swooping hug and a chorus of birthday wishes crowned by a sweet kiss on the lips. Lorenz smiled, pleased not only that Marianne had improved her mood since her younger years, but also that she and Hilda had deepened their relationship in such a way. 

The three of them had started seeing more of each other since becoming of age and attending the Roundtable meetings with their parents, or in Hilda’s case, her brother. The stalwart Duke Goneril swept in behind his sister, as loud and boisterous as her in wishing Marianne a happy birthday, his wide arms lifting her as his sister had done, muscles bulging beneath the skin. While Hilda praised Lorenz’s gift, Holst moved to clasp Lorenz’s shoulder, his broad palm knocking the breath out of him. 

“I hope there are no hard feelings about the result of the vote today. You know I think you’re a great guy, right?” 

Lorenz returned his smile blinking up at him—not many men towered over Lorenz—and brushed a hand through his hair, making sure it cascaded flawlessly over his shoulder. 

“Of course, Holt,” he said, clearing his throat. “Politics should never influence—”

“Lorenz!” Hilda hitched herself on his shoulder, almost toppling him over. “I have huge news. Stop flirting with my brother and listen.” 

Heat swept over his face, but Holst remained characteristically oblivious as he laughed and praised his dear sister’s humor. 

“I was not flirting with anybody!” he hissed when Holst moved away to greet the older nobles. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, you know how our house has a view right over the port?” And who didn’t know? The Goneril residence in the capital was one of the oldest, most elegant, presiding over the calm waters of the ocean with a clear view of the horizon littered with ships. “Well, we kept vigil for the whole night. Not a single ship arrived. Do you think the heir maybe regretted it and is not coming?” 

Lorenz scoffed. “That certainly would make all of our lives easier.” 

“You think? I’m dying to meet him. I hope he doesn’t have Godfrey’s nose, o _ r  _ those awful eyebrows of his,” she added in a quieter breath that, for Hilda, meant regular in-door voice tone. 

“Hilda!” said Marianne. “He died two months ago!” 

“Yes, we mustn't speak ill of the dead,” Lorenz agreed. And then, with a sly smile, “But let’s hope he doesn’t share the Duke’s passion for liquor, either.”

But as the council room filled—Lysithea coming on her own to represent her House, her parents refused to leave their territory since that trouble with the Empire; Lady Judith arriving the last—the rumors started to sound true enough, the longer the heir didn’t show, and conversation lowered to a hesitant chatter. Duke Riegan presided the table in silence, uncaring of murmurs rising about the table. 

An hour had passed when the doors opened at last and a servant wearing the Riegan livery announced Claude von Riegan. 

Lorenz’s mouth fell open as the man walked into the room. It was unnatural to look back on events and find yourself unable to believe your own eyes. And yet here Claude was. 

He had changed out of his worn traveling clothes but the smile was the same, and so were his eyes, which danced over the council members one by one, as if a bee looking for a place to land, until they set on Lorenz; he felt blood rush to his face, surely to be noticeable beneath his pale skin even from the doors where Claude stood. And then a carefully arranged tray of crescent-moon cakes was brought into the room—“Oh!” Marianne whispered beside Lorenz. “Are those the same as—?”—and Claude  _ winked _ , bowed, and sat by his grandfather. 

Introductions were made as Lorenz struggled to unclench his fists from the armchair before his nails were permanently imprinted in the upholstery; his hands had started to sweat. 

The meeting passed in a blur, trying to ignore both Hilda—pointing to Claude and theatrically fanning herself—and Claude, who every time their eyes met nodded to the emptying tray of pastries and gave Lorenz a thumbs up; Holst hadn’t managed to wipe a spot of powdered sugar from his lips. 

When it was time for his speech, peppered with a mouthful of flowery promises his father had insisted would yield results, Lorenz relied on the long hours revising it and let his memory do the work. He had to trust his father’s pleased smile after he finished to confirm he hadn’t blurted out one of his poems instead. 

Duke Riegan spoke for his grandson, and explained how he had spent his life away from court, as his mother had been disinherited after running away. No other mention of his parentage was made, and Claude listened with his head bent until the duke was done. 

Then he cleared his throat and stood. “Grandpa here explained it all pretty well, but I know none of you have any actual trust in my identity.” Claude swept the room with his gaze, and Lorenz could have sworn he stopped to regard him with this last part. “However,”--clapping his hands--"I think we can all agree that Crests don’t lie.” 

A young man who had stood motionless by the door moved at Claude’s signal, carrying a heavy board covered by a cloth. 

“Thank you, Cyril,” said Claude, setting it on the table in front of him. 

With a flourish, as if a magician uncovering a trick, he removed the cloth and revealed a Crest Analyser underneath. Hilda clapped at the act, and Claude bowed in her direction, the corners of his eyes wrinkling charmingly. Enlightenment showed in the faces of the gathered nobles by stages. It would have been a necessary step of the way, to prove whether Claude’s blood revealed the Crest of Riegan, and by doing so now, he not only gained trust and appreciation for allowing it in the open, but also saved time and prevented any objections against the election made under the claim of unproven identity. 

Everyone rose to their feet to take a look when Claude accepted a knife from Cyril and started unlacing the cuff of his left wrist. 

Professor Hanneman’s famous invention glowed as Claude bled over the device, his brow furrowed by pain for a moment. The drops gathered in quiet communion, then a faint humming in the air, and tendrils uncoiled slowly, born from the blood, until they formed the classic—and frankly expected after that dramatic performance—Crescent Moon. 

The vote was cast by show of hands: House Gloucester backed by Edmund and Ordelia, House Riegan by Goneril and Daphnel. 

—

“So, was that a good first impression?” 

They had taken a recess to clear the table and recapitulate and heal Claude’s arm. Lorenz tried to follow his father and Margrave Edmund out of the room, but Claude stepped in his way.

“On a scale of one to ten?” prompted Claude. 

Lorenz stared him down, fury and shame warring inside him—Claude had laughed at his expense, followed him and taken advantage of Lorenz's goodwill for his own amusement. 

“I hope your little charade was pleasant enough,” Lorenz said. “But I fail to see why you would go to such lengths to humiliate me.” 

Claude’s smile faltered. 

“I wasn’t—”

"Oh? Did you not know who I was?" Lorenz asked, wondering if Claude would lie again. 

A part of him realized faintly that Claude hadn't actually lied to him, but still, lying by omission was as ignoble and unsuitable for the future leader of the Alliance. 

"I did," he said, frowning. He seemed to be about to continue, but—

“Look at you!” Hilda said, appearing with Marianne by her side. “That was the only entertaining Roundtable ever.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! You poor thing, you’re bleeding.” 

The blood colored the bandage around Claude’s forearm red. Marianne stepped in. “May I?”

“Sure.” Claude lifted his arm, throwing one last puzzled look at Lorenz, and watched enraptured as light erupted from Marianne’s fingers hovering over his wound. He flexed his hand, removing the bandage and examining the closed wound when she finished. “Wow, you’re good! Thank you. Is this Faith magic?” 

“Yes—”

“Of course it is Faith magic. Is this your first time seeing it? Faith magic is extended all throughout Fódlan,” Lorenz said, narrowing his eyes. 

Claude raised his eyebrows, the feigned innocence doing nothing to hide the impish glint in his eyes. “Where is that suspicion coming from?” he asked, one hand pressing against his chest. “I can only possess the Riegan Crest if I’m a true descendant, and that thing just showed the Crescent Moon.”

“Do you think a Crest solves anything? What about your upbringing, your education? You clearly fail to grasp the significance of the responsibility you are seeking. House Gloucester will not renounce its claim to the leadership of the Alliance for someone like you, Crest or no Crest.”

He expected Claude to speak in anger, to witness his features hardening, yet none of those happened, and Lorenz couldn't hear his answer because at that moment: “Lorenz,” his father spoke. 

Only now did Lorenz notice the stillness of the room; he hadn’t raised his voice, but every head turned in his direction had heard his words. Heat rushed to his face. 

“Son, a word, please,” said Count Gloucester. 

Next to the council room there was the war room, unused since the Crescent Moon War, the map spanning the grand table in the middle outdated. In the privacy of the office, Lorenz said, “I’m so sorry, Father. I spoke out of turn, I can only hope that will not hinder our chances—”

“Nonsense, son. You put that lout in his place. And I feel relieved you share my sentiments. House Gloucester is ready to ascend, now is our time, and we will do anything to stop that so-called legitimate heir.”

Lorenz’s relief flew like an arrow and vanished when his father reached the end of his sentence. Working through his suddenly dry throat, “Anything? What do you mean, anything?” said Lorenz. The poorly ventilated room covered in dust irritated his eyes and he had to blink to focus on his father’s face. 

Count Gloucester reached and patted his heir’s cheek with a heavily ringed hand. “It is high time change happened in the Alliance, son. We will fight for what is rightfully ours.”

“Fight?” His voice echoed in the empty room, strangled even to his own ears. “You cannot mean civil war, Father. We cannot allow the Alliance to suffer—”

“What’s important is how it will prosper, after we're done. After we put each House in its place. And it will be you, my heir, behind whom our forces will rally.” 

Swallowing through the knot in his throat, “But— How— The vote was tied. House Goneril and House Daphnel—” said Lorenz. He wanted to rip out his tongue and reattach it, make his breath stop catching in his throat. “Our battalions cannot compare to House Goneril’s,” he managed to say. 

A triumphant line creased his father's mouth. It took Lorenz a moment to see it for the smile it was. 

“Now is not the time. We must resume our meeting, but later you will understand.” 

To walk back into the council room, putting one boot in front of the other—it took all of Lorenz’s willpower. He couldn’t even blush when all eyes followed his father and him to their chairs, instead of scalding shame a cold feeling of dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach. Claude wore a frown, and he looked away from him, afraid he would somehow read the pallor of his skin for what it was. Maybe if he’d returned his stare, he could have read something about what was to unwind in the next hour—but no, Claude kept his cards close to his chest, didn't he?

Everything seemed to roll downhill from that moment, but Lorenz perceived it with a much-needed distance from the situation, limiting himself to listening over the procedures and his father’s veiled threats and negotiations. At multiple occasions cries erupted around the room: after Claude refused to settle down and give up his rights to lead and Count Gloucester threatened civil war; after Claude claimed to have proof of Count Gloucester’s plot to commit treason; after Claude produced a signed letter from the King of Faerghus that assured the Riegan heir of the kingdom’s support should a war occur. 

His knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, Lorenz could already see soldiers marching, towns burning, the Alliance suffering and weakening and the ever-present threat of Almyra to the east taking advantage…

Then, "For the sake of this nation I have led for years, I propose another alternative," said Duke Riegan.

Hilda gasped in the stillness that followed the duke's explanation and Lorenz couldn’t fault her for the histrionics, his own breath leaving him in a rush. 

A simple joint leadership--unprecedented in the history of the Alliance--paled in comparison to a marriage, the latter a permanent commitment to the Goddess, a harmony of bodies and minds and souls, and it guaranteed there would be no disputes between Gloucester and Riegan ever again—since both houses would cease to exist to merge into one. 

“This is preposterous!” Lorenz shot to his feet, cutting off one of his father’s long objections—‘I will not allow the Crest of Gloucester to be lost!’—and drawing Claude’s attention. 

Claude, paler than before, said, “I don’t want this any more than you do—”

“That is doubtful, since _your_ House proposes—”

“It's marriage or civil war. House Gloucester cannot be trusted after plotting treason,” said Duke Riegan. 

“You have no proof of this!” Lorenz said, eyes skipping over the Duke to bore into Claude, who had uttered the accusations in the first place. How dared he slander the name of his House? Claude had manipulated the whole room with overconfidence and fake smiles. Lorenz would not be fooled. 

But Claude didn’t offer any excuses, instead said to him, the last thing he said to Lorenz that day, “This is the only way to keep both House Riegan and House Gloucester alive. Would you rather we have bloodshed?” 

—

Lorenz did in fact prefer bloodshed, if it could be limited to Claude’s person. As things were, House Daphnel and especially House Goneril would suffer as House Riegan did, and Lorenz couldn't allow himself to imagine facing against his friends in combat. He told as much to them when they gathered for tea, two days after the Roundtable, in the Gloucester manor at Derdriu. 

“So you will marry him?” Lysithea asked.

“You have to admit, he could be worse,” said Hilda, blowing over her cup of tea.

“How, pray tell.” Lorenz leaned back in his chair taking his cup with him. “He takes nothing seriously, he looks as trustworthy as an Adrestian, has no manners befitting a noble let alone a political figurehead. Nobody knows where he came from, and he has spied on my father’s correspondence and lied about his letters.” 

“Your best friend is the Adrestian Prime Minister,” Lysithea deadpanned, looking up from her book.

“And who cares about those things? He’s hot. Like,  _ you  _ wouldn’t be the one settling for him—”

“Hilda!” Marianne hissed, not low enough to escape Lorenz’s notice. 

“Neither would he!” Hilda rushed to say, raising her eyebrows in affront. “I think you’re both very aesthetically matched.”

Lorenz scoffed. “Earrings went out of fashion years ago. And that hair? Did he arrive on a wyvern’s back?” 

“You’re all digressing,” Lyshithea said, putting her book aside. “Not only did he spy on Count Gloucester, but he is also threatening civil war and he has the kingdom to back him up.”

“I think Lorenz’s father mentioned war first,” Marianne pointed out. Lorenz hid his grimace behind his cup. “Sorry, Lorenz.” 

Lorenz shook his head. 

“He knew he would. Claude, I mean. He knew what my father had planned and had the means to defend his position. He is a scheming dastard.”

“My father says he refuses to be pushed around by— Well, he used something worse than dastard,” Marianne said. “But I don’t want to fight, especially if,” she glanced at Hilda, “if it means fighting against each other.” 

Hilda’s cheery smile faltered for a moment when she looked at Marianne. Lorenz tasted ashes in his mouth instead of tea as he realized once again the power his answer to Claude entailed.

“Saints, you’re actually doing it!” Lyshithea gasped unprompted. 

Lorenz looked up from the scarce contents of his cup. “What?” 

“That look on your face,” she offered as explanation. “I can’t believe it. You’ve spent Goddess knows how long preparing to lead the Alliance: you barely left your rooms after Godfrey died, and now—”

“I cannot find war preferable.”

“What will your father say?” asked Marianne, and they looked at each other knowingly, as only the two of them could, sharing the burden of ambitious expectations placed on their shoulders by their fathers. 

“He will rage about heritage and crests, but…” He hesitated. He had never before offered his thoughts about this matter, always playing along with his father’s wishes and courting ladies of his choice for the sole purpose of a worthy heritage. “But I think those principles somewhat outdated, to be truthful. I received a letter from Ferdinand recently, he wrote to me about the Empire’s intentions to topple the Crest status and I believe we could learn something from them.” He drained his cup and set it on the table, not meeting his friends’ eyes. 

“And House Gloucester?” Lysithea broke the silence, eyes narrowed. She knew better than anyone what it was to have your house harassed to the point of near extinction. 

“This goes beyond my House, a war would wreck the Alliance and leave it vulnerable to Almyra, maybe even Adrestia. Still, if House Gloucester goes to war and loses, it dies, as a traitor, stripped of everything. By—agreeing to Duke Riegan’s proposal, it can still survive, and we can clear our name.” Saying it out loud seemed to bring a somber quality to the bright room, and Lorenz looked around, sensing the house’s architecture around him, the generations of Gloucesters who had lived there. At least, he had already said his private farewell to his country house in the Gloucester Estate where he had grown up. The manor in Derdriu was a lesser hurt. 

“You have given this a lot of thought,” Marianne said. 

Lorenz felt his pale skin flush with color. “Do not mistake my intentions. I still intend to expose each and every one of this man’s lies. Where did he come from? and why did nobody know of his existence until now? He has spied on me, probably all of us, manipulated my father and accused my House of treason. I do not forget that even if this solution is the one that prevents war, it still would not be needed had he not appeared from nowhere to upturn our lives. He will regret marrying me as much as I regret marrying him.”

—

The day of the wedding incense clouded the elegant cathedral, floating to the painted ceiling where it disappeared from sight but remained in every guest’s nostrils. Despite the hour, barely any natural light reached the room, and the smoke of the candles and the incense and the gray light coming from outside blended together to lend a somber quality to the place. 

Lorenz was glad when the joining of hands took place, only because it would signal the end of the ceremony. The incense was giving him a headache and his eyes stung. 

Turning towards each other, like parenthesis closing, he and Claude held hands, palm against palm, two layers of mutton gloves in the way and arms outstretched. Lorenz’s right hand closed over Claude’s left, and he stretched his left one, palm upwards, to allow for Claude’s right to rest on top of it. Claude’s grip was firm, unwavering; neither of them had tried to remove the other’s gloves as other couples did. Lorenz knew it not to be mandatory for the completion of the rite, and Claude clearly didn’t care. 

Holding hands with his husband meant turning to look at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since joining him at the altar. Lorenz had expected the surge of hate he had experienced every time he thought about Claude for the past month to sweep over him then as well, and it did; even though he wore what could be considered a solemn expression, he wouldn’t fool Lorenz ever again. And there indeed, under Lorenz’s heavy scrutiny, Claude pressed his lips together, and Lorenz hated to learn how his mouth moved when trying to swallow down laughter. 

Lorenz thought of his father, his sleepless nights and frantic letters to his allies, trying to find a solution not only to save Lorenz from this marriage but to clear his own name after Claude’s baseless allegations against House Gloucester that nonetheless were being investigated. Count Gloucester had written to the Ministry of Justice to ask for information regarding Riegan’s accusations, but the Ministry, operating marginal to the Roundtable and the leading Houses of the Alliance and hence immune to his father’s appeals, had offered no answer. 

Lorenz thought of this, and found no other culprit but the man by his side, whom he had just joined for what could perfectly well be forever and who, unhesitant, signed his name by Lorenz’s when a page stepped forward offering the documents in which they recognized the other as equal sovereigns of both the Alliance and each other. The thick paper accepted the permanent scars, absorbed the ink as if starving, sealing their fates together with a stark  _ CR  _ besides the looping  _ LHG _ . 

—

Despite the short month they’d had for preparations and the somber state the season lent to the monastery, colorful wreaths of fresh flowers hung over the walls of the dining hall, the scent of roses sweeping out to meet them as the doors opened. Here a fire warmed the hearth, and Lorenz found his appreciative gaze drawn to the decorations with quiet appraisal. Not only the ample, heavy garlands, but the connected tables too, covered by elegant silk cloths and set with silver cutlery polished to a fragile brightness that not only reflected but seemed to absorb the tilting flames of hundreds of candles, set in sconces on the wall or crowning the carved candelabrum on the table. 

Lorenz didn’t let the beautiful simplicity of the sight startle him into stillness, too conscious of the procession of guests at his back and Claude’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t help how his breath caught in his throat. 

They walked side by side to the head of the table—set on a dais that allowed the two of them to preside over the rest of the guests. Only the two of them. 

Not until they sat down did the doors to the kitchens open, the servants waiting for their cue, and the aroma coming from the meat cooking in the ovens drowned that of the roses. 

Silence reigned until every guest sat in their place; Lorenz had his father on his other side, Claude sat next to Lady Judith and exchanged veiled smiles with her from time to time. Marianne, Lysithea and Hilda grouped together, the latter by her brother, clad in rouge velvet and a fur cloak that broadened his shoulders even more. Once everyone had found their place, Claude rose. 

“To our guests reunited here today at such short notice: both Lord Gloucester and I want to thank you for coming to celebrate not only our joining, but the appointment of the two new leaders of the Alliance.” A pause, then with a winning smile, “Us, of course.” Lorenz hoped his own smiled didn’t look as rigid as it felt. “We can only hope you await our combined efforts to bring the best of the Alliance to light as anxiously as you await that mouth-watering pheasant we’re all smelling.” And raising his arm he gestured for the servants to bring out the dishes, and guests turned to their seatmates letting the merriment of voices fill the room. Musicians joined in on cue, and the sound of strings and metal and wind escalated and blended with the voices. 

Dish after dish the servants brought from the kitchens: herring and pepper tarts, moist with olive oil and accompanied by hot soup thick with spices; venison with honey and mustard; stuffed pheasants dripping with berry sauce; gratinated goat cheese to spread on raisin bread.

Lorenz let his eyes gloss over the rest of the food that kept coming and drained his glass of wine as soon as it was filled; the servant moved to pour more wine and Lorenz regretted his efficiency for a second—it wouldn’t do to become noticeably inebriated—before bringing the glass to his lips once again. He put it down to find Claude leaning into his space to speak to him over the noise of the crowd.

“What do you think of the banquet?” 

His earring winked, reflecting the flame of the candles. 

“It is acceptable.” He wasn’t impatient to try the food, even if it tasted as delicious as it looked; his stomach kept stirring like the first time he’d ridden a pegasus. 

He would have ended the conversation there, but Lorenz had been invited to enough political ceremonies to know that at least half the room had their eyes on them, and knew how ungracious it looked when the married couple slighted each other during the feast. He forced his mouth to continue the conversation in a more courteous direction. “House Riegan has done a spectacular job with the feast. You have both my gratitude and felicitations.” 

A bark of laughter surprised him. He turned to better look at—his husband, his face sobering up into the easy smile familiar by now. He looked utterly relaxed, his grin sincere and not the mere attempt at civility Lorenz’s words had been. 

“So which is it? Acceptable, or spectacular?” he asked. “You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.” 

“What makes you think I would subject my opinion to your feelings?” 

“Ok, I believe  _ that _ . But you may want to actually try the food, if you want me to believe you about the feast.” 

The wine—surely to blame for the blankness of his mind at Claude’s relentless inquiries—seemed to have settled his stomach, though maybe not enough for the venison. 

“What are your feelings on goat cheese?” Claude asked, gesturing to a plate of said dish set between the two of them. 

_ Right  _ between the two of them. Because some couples liked not only to share food but to feed each other. Claude’s bare hand—he had taken off his gloves at some point—still hovered, pointing at the dish.

Lorenz hauled the plate to his side of the table before his mind conjured up any unwanted images and refused to check Claude’s reaction. He removed his gloves pulling on its fingers one by one, willing himself to stretch Claude’s studious patience all he could. 

His knife breached the gratinated surface, the rich melted cheese beneath clinging to the blade and not congealed as sometimes happened if the oven had not been heated enough. The bread soaked it up as Lorenz spread the cheese. 

The taste burst in his mouth as he bit into it and his stomach offered its rumbling appreciation. After taking his time savoring the clash of flavors—the sweet bread placating the essence of the cheese—he patted the corners of his mouth with his napkin. 

Turning to Claude he gave his verdict: “As I said, House Riegan has my congratulations.” 

This time, Claude bowed his head in acceptance of the compliment, and proceeded to entertain himself offering food to Lorenz and expatiating upon the various meal courses. Lorenz learned about his favorite—the pheasant roast with berry sauce—, about his preferences—meat rather than fish—, and that while Lorenz was holding himself back to save space for the dessert, Claude didn't have much of a sweet tooth. 

Pleasant conversation flowed swiftly back and force, and Lorenz found himself forgetting about their audience and answering as he would a fellow noble with impeccable manners and ample conversation skills, and a charming smile he knew how to wield. 

Throughout the meal, guests rose at their leisure to bow before them and offer their congratulations, exchanging a few minutes of polite talk. Holst exuded joviality when he approached—even more than usual, probably something to do with the beer flush tinting his cheeks—and had shed his heavy cloak, as had Lorenz done with his coat some time ago, the effects of the warm food and the alcohol and the multitude of people under the same roof raising the temperature of the room. Claude too had unlaced his cravat and the collar of his jacket, lapels parting to reveal tanned collarbones and the curve of a chest shadowed by hair. Hilda, who since the engagement ball seemed more and more taken with Claude’s magnetism, giggled as she complimented the grooms’ outfits—‘especially that cape; really brings out your eyes, Claude’. Even Marianne and Lysithea, not the greatest at small talk, Lorenz admitted, due to shyness and excessive bluntness respectively, had warm smiles to spare. 

“You and Lady Judith seem close,” Lorenz said, after her turn to approach came. Claude hadn’t treated her differently, but their smiles had wrinkled their eyes and Claude’s, Lorenz had realized with some consternation, had dug a dimple in one of his cheeks, which his usual plastered-on grin didn’t achieve. 

Claude drank from his glass before answering. “Do we?” he said. “She’s been helping a lot since I came to Derdriu. Showing me around the place”—not news to Lorenz, who had had eyes on Claude’s movements for the past month—“telling me what nobles have fallen in which canals, the usual.” Lorenz’s lips twitched, recalling one of said drops he’d witnessed. “But I do think she’ll be glad to pass on the mantel, says she’s too old to keep up with me anymore.” 

“I am confident I will manage it with success.” 

“To take up the mantle?” Claude cocked his head. 

“To keep up with you,” Lorenz heard himself saying, and found surprising delight in the slow curling of lips he received for his words. 

Desserts started rolling in from the kitchens at last—too many types of sweetmeats to begin to catalog. A plate of coconut cream buns, egg tarts, and almond pastries covered in so much powdered sugar the trays left a floating trail in their wake had drawn Lorenz’s attention, but before it could reach his table, someone cleared their throat, and Lorenz looked to see his father raising from his stiff bow. 

“My son,” Count Gloucester said. “I did not expect to find you enjoying the celebration so, after what this man has cost to our family. But I see you are capable to forgive his wrongdoings, and so soon, too. A good quality in a husband, I’m sure Lord Riegan agrees.” 

As if every candle were extinguished at once, cold swept in and pressed around Lorenz’s body. His hand clenched around the stem of his glass, for his father spoke the truth: he may have only meant to grace their guests with a courteous performance, but Claude knew not only how to lead the conversation, each topic simple yet engaging, but how to listen as well, directing his focus and working his brain to follow Lorenz’s thoughts. Lorenz had known him to be smart and cunning, but had failed to be wary enough, allowing Claude to spin him around effortlessly, driving Lorenz’s mind away from his misdeeds and making him forget his purpose, this day and every day until the end of their marriage, was to crack him open and search him for his true intentions. 

“I think he showed great diplomacy, my friend.” Margrave Edmund, appearing at his father’s side. “I must not have been easy, but at least your guests rejoiced in the celebration, that I know.”

“Then we are well pleased.” Lorenz nodded, accepting Edmund’s compliment. 

“That’s a sign the marriage will prosper,” said Claude, drawing the two pairs of inquisitive eyes to him. “Is it not?” 

Both Count Gloucester and Margrave Edmund seemed displeased to be reminded of his existence. You couldn’t call silence what followed, the rest of the guests roaring in the background, but the tension was still there. 

Finally, “We can only hope that’s the case, Your Grace,” Margrave Edmund said, curt, before the two men bowed one last time and walked away. 

Lorenz exhaled, struggling to unstiffen his muscles and find his previous relaxed position on the chair without alerting Claude to his discomfort. 

“Should I assume they’re not getting us a gift?” Claude asked, flippant, draining the last of his wine. 

His banked anger towards Claude and his timing and his presence in his life reignited, stronger than before, blending with shame for his father’s dismissal, and the alcohol and the harassing heat of the hearth and the candles. 

“You,” Lorenz said after failing to control his temper, “spied on us. Opened my father’s private correspondence and fabricated some impossible story about treason. What could you possibly expect? He isn’t the one that needs to pretend you are anything but a—”

Claude set down his glass and rested his wrist on the edge of the table, twirling the stem of the glass between his fingers; the picture of tranquility. 

“Go on. Anything but a…” 

Lorenz looked away from him, the crowd around him a much-needed reminder of what he could and could not do or say. Not much longer, now, until they could retire to their shared room, which existence Lorenz had done his best to ignore until now. 

No more guests interrupted them, but when the plate of sweetmeats arrived, Lorenz drained his glass instead. Claude didn’t comment on the matter, at last silent. 

—

The room had been prepared with the utmost care, not a luxury spared, the priest that led them to it assured them. So the fire burning in the hearth of the anteroom was to be expected, as were the thick Dagdan rugs and the velvet curtains, the mahogany table upon which two glasses and a bottle of, surely, delicious liquor rested, in case the couple wished to share one last beverage before retiring to bed. Beyond an open door, the room itself: another lit fire, another elegant rug, more heavy curtains. A canopy bed instead of a table, so wide and spacious it seemed one could lose their way there trying to find their partner. Lorenz pressed a hand over his mouth to stop a feverish laugh from escaping. 

He longed for rest. Sleep had eluded him for a week now, his dreams interrupted by vague nightmares interrupted by jolting himself awake in the middle of the night. He wanted to wrap his comfortable robe around himself and shed the heavy garments that now smelled of smoke and food and the incense of the cathedral. 

"You can go first if you wish."

He raised his eyes from the fire. How long had he remained lost in thoughts? His mother said it was dangerous to stare at the flames for too long, that that burning core was beyond the Goddess’s domain and She could not protect those who ventured there. He had wanted to know more. He had asked his father, who had dismissed his mother's stories. He had asked his tutor, who had told him the Almyrans had a goddess to protect them from the fire, as they had a god of water, and another for the sun, and countless others. Maybe they had one for unwanted marriages.

His husband—the sooner he called him that the better—had his back to Lorenz, even after speaking. He had opened the curtains and pointed his gaze beyond the glass of the window, somewhere wrapped in total darkness, for the moon hid from that sliver of night their window showed. Lorenz recalled gray clouds floating in the sky earlier in the day. 

"To the washroom, I mean," Claude added, as if sensing Lorenz’s eyes on his back. 

Lorenz accepted his offer murmuring his gratitude and gathering his things before stepping into the lavatory and closing the door. Relief, instant and weakening in its intensity; to be alone at last was liberating. He'd never thought he would feel like that, especially on his wedding day. Despite knowing that a political marriage awaited him, as had been the case for his parents, he had pictured the proceedings very differently, and had always trusted his refined manners would lead the way, allowing for a formal friendship to bloom in place of a romance. Of course this required time to know each other. And a proper partner, not someone who accused his family of treason and mocked him. 

The soft towels and warm water he had hoped would relax him for the night failed, his inopportune thoughts feeding his anger, and his skin reddened where he rubbed the towel with excessive force. 

He came into the bedroom to find Claude nowhere in sight. He should have ignored it, yet curiosity—had he abandoned the rooms altogether and planned to seek sleep elsewhere?— led him to the anteroom. And there he was, cradling a glass of liquor in his hand, sitting in one of the armchairs. 

"The washroom is at your disposal," Lorenz said, enunciating each word to escape the feeling of intimacy the sentence along with Lorenz’s nightclothes and the sight of Claude in his shirtsleeves and the private lighting of the room pushed to create. The light of the fire danced on Claude's face, shadows giving a hollow shape to his features. 

Claude turned his head to look at him; his eyes, heavy-lidded and shadowed by the fire, only took a second to look over Lorenz before drifting away. 

“You can have the bed,” he said in a strange voice, and it took Lorenz a moment to understand the wrongness of it, what he would come in time to know as a combination of exhaustion and a foreign accent, but at the moment could only guess at as intoxication. 

It should not have bothered him. The liquor was there for a reason. Liquid courage, some called it, except Claude had not seemed the least distressed during the celebrations. And what did he have to be upset about? He had waltzed in from Goddess knew where, acquired a nation and power and a position for which he had never been educated nor could he have possibly aspired to reach. And he  _ allowed  _ Lorenz to have the bed?

“Do you expect me to be grateful for that?” Lorenz said, and had the satisfaction of watching him furrow his brow. 

“No, of course not.” His voice endeavored to return to its usual state. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I have seen how you act. You think you can make anyone dance around you, do you not?”

“If this is about what your father said—”

“How dare you talk about my father. After spying on him and embarrassing him—no, us? You slandered the name of my House, accusing us of treason, but I ‘can have the bed’?”

Claude moved to his feet, discarding the glass of liquor. He raised his arms, placating. “Look, if you want to share the bed so badly—” 

Inhaling sharply, Lorenz said, “I would rather sleep in the pigsty.” 

Claude’s lips twitched. “In that silk robe?” 

Lorenz took a step further into the anteroom. He wasn’t a violent man, and always judged harshly those who made use of their physicality to intimidate—those who crowded their victims to shout in their faces. He had never felt that anger that moved beyond comprehension or rationalization, nor would have he thought it real, yet here he was: he wanted to get as far away from Claude as possible, yet his bare feet took him towards him. 

“Do you take nothing seriously? You joke, you mock. You ruined my life, do you know that? Waltzing in from wherever you spawned.” He managed to stop himself two steps from Claude, as if letting out his thoughts had managed to slow his racing body. “You are nothing but a liar: you made up a story about my father planning treason and you hide your identity. Did you and your grandfather have a laugh when one of you proposed the marriage? Let’s embarrass House Gloucester, who has taken care of the Alliance since House Riegan left it in the hands of that drunk old man.”

“I didn’t know about the wedding until you did,” Claude said, slowly, and Lorenz laughed. 

“You speak nothing but lies.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Are we being truthful, then? Where did you come from? What family did your mother marry into? Nobody in the Alliance has heard of you until now.”

“My mother didn’t marry any of the Alliance’s important families, why would you have heard of me?”

_ “Because I investigated you.” _

Claude frowned, the faintest of reactions, but Lorenz felt his lips stretch into a triumphant smile. 

“I suppose I had it coming, after reading through your father’s mail,” he said, exhaling a short breath that sounded too much like a laugh to Lorenz’s ears. 

“How are you so shameless as to admit it to my face?” 

“Because we’re being truthful.” Claude took a step towards him, and another, until he had to bend his neck to look into Lorenz’s eyes. “And since we’re being truthful, do you know about your father’s involvement with Godfrey’s death?” 

Feelings, which clouded Lorenz’s mind, were fickle things, as powerful as weapons and as weak as men. Strong enough to move Lorenz’s body across a room, yet they vanished after Claude’s words. No anger and no fear and no hate and no shame. Lorenz could only hear the words repeated in his head, like a ball bouncing across empty space, until it wasn’t empty anymore. 

“What?” he said, understanding coming slowly. “You accuse my father not only of plotting treason but now of  _ murder _ ?” Laughter. His own. “You are mad.”

“How can you not know?” Claude asked, something like wonder and astonishment in his voice. He had fallen slightly back, not as far as a step, but he had relaxed his shoulders. 

Anger rose again, but now Lorenz was prepared to hold it back, realizing in the silence of the room that they had definitely raised their voices during their argument. At least, Lorenz had. 

“I will appreciate you not mentioning my father to me anymore,” he said, reining back his temper by a thread. “I couldn't care less about your conspiracy theories. In fact, let’s endeavor to do our best not to talk to each other unless we are in public.”

“That’s completely unreasonable—”

But Lorenz turned around and slammed the bedroom door shut.


	2. II

Weddings in the Leicester Alliance were endless. 

No, that may have been a generalization. 

_ Noble  _ weddings in the Leicester Alliance were endless. 

Claude doubted the commoners had to suffer a six-hour ride through hills and goat paths and woods and low-hanging branches on a horse—mare? gelding?—of all things. 

“It is the pilgrimage trail and it’s said to bring prosperity to the marriage,” Judith had said when he complained the first time he heard he had to ride a horse for six hours, which was six hours too many. 

Judith had said a lot of things. None of them that his new husband had been born on a horse and could navigate the steep climbs with the same ease he did the plains, only requiring one eye to do so, which gave him ample opportunity to watch Claude with the other and frown or press his lips together or rearrange his long hair over one shoulder every time Claude fumbled. Claude knew he was doing something especially disappointing when he did all of them at the same time. 

He couldn’t tell Lorenz the last time he'd ridden a horse had been years ago, before he finally turned twelve and was allowed to move on to wyverns, the preferred mount for Almyran royalty. The aftermath would surely not be worth the fleeting amusement of seeing Lorenz fall off his horse. 

After a difficult stretch—the last before they left behind the hills and witnessed Derdriu looming over the horizon—he risked a glance over his shoulder to check on Cyril riding behind him as part of his guard. Where Claude had gotten all three of Lorenz’s Signs of Displeasement, Cyril would have probably only received one. Claude made a mental note to congratulate him later. 

And there Derdriu was at last, which meant at least two more hours were to be spent on horseback. Lorenz reined in his horse to take in the sight, and Claude was all too glad to comply and make all the jostling stop. They had stopped for refreshments less than an hour ago, but his muscles already complained, missing the smooth flight of wyverns. 

“What part of the castle is that?” he asked, pointing to the highest point discernible from afar where the light of the near-midday sun reflected viciously making it look like glass instead of the marble it was. 

Lorenz had remained silent and taciturn since the previous night, only allowing courteous talk during breakfast in front of the few nobles who had chosen to rise early to accompany them in their journey. Claude was impatient to know whether he would choose to ignore him now that they were on their own, still waiting for the guards and the nobles behind to catch up. 

It seemed Lorenz would, for he didn't speak until Claude made a show of looking over his shoulder, widening his eyes and mouthing, "Public incoming."

Lorenz rolled his eyes.

But maybe he as well was bored of the silent scenery or regretted at least some of the words they had exchanged the night before, because, “The First Tower,” Lorenz answered at last, after what looked like a short argument with himself. “Where we are to establish our respective residences.” 

The indisputable plural agreed with Claude, not eager to repeat the events of the night before. It would be for the best to keep things separate, and not only when it came to their sleeping arrangements. There had been a few moments, during the feast, when they had been able to maintain a civil—even enjoyable, Claude admitted—conversation, but Claude had experience with courts, and no matter the side of the border he knew how to distinguish between sincerity and noble manners. And Lorenz wore the latter so tightly there was no room for anything else. 

Lorenz turned to look at him then, eyes narrowed. Too focused on remaining on his horse, Claude had glossed over the perfect picture of an Alliance noble Lorenz painted, until now; mounted on his chestnut and wearing a long cape the color of red wine, his spine was set in an unflinching straight line and his posture enhanced by his generous height and slender body. The morning wind had lent some color to his skin, and the ride had loosened his expression some, the sharp angles of the face sitting upon that slim neck simply elegant rather than disdainful, until he opened his mouth. 

“Have you  _ ever  _ received riding lessons?” Like it pained him to ask. "If so, did you skip them?"

“I am unused to this terrain," he said. And added, "Is this a truce? Am I allowed to speak to you now?” with a smile. 

The truth was Lorenz’s stubborn silence had served Claude’s purposes, after Judith warned him about arriving at the capital with a bloody mouth—“If we can’t prevent a broken arm that’s that,” Judith had said that morning, nonchalant because the arm wasn’t her own. “But for the love of the Goddess, do not start wagging your tongue while trotting.”

Lorenz didn’t seem to appreciate his reasonable inquiry, his eyes two thin slits as he said, “As if you were waiting for permission.”

Behind them, the sound of hooves approached, along with laughter and snippets of conversations stolen by the wind. Their retainers were almost at their heels when Lorenz spoke again. 

“You can give her a little more rein now that we have left the hills behind. She will appreciate it,” he said looking down from his few inches of superior height. He reached to pat the neck of Claude’s mare a couple of times before tensing his thighs and trotting off without even a sidelong glance to check if Claude followed.

It wasn't hard to sound condescending when giving such obvious advice, and Lorenz excelled at it. But Claude was used to that: horses were a primitive mode of transportation, and nobles didn’t know how to give advice without being patronizing. Still, he chose to see it as further proof of their moving on from the night before, and followed Lorenz’s recommendation as he started after him, patting the mare’s neck as he had, and the horse sighed noisily and picked up a calm rhythm. 

—

Because they arrived earlier—but no less famished—than expected, they were allowed to eat in private without offending every courtier at the castle. His new manservant, Joffrey, introduced himself and the other servants at Claude’s disposal. Claude trusted none of the pleasant smiles he received, but accepted the heavy tray containing his meal with gratitude. 

Someone knocked on the door to his anteroom as he was about to taste his first bite of the roast—unseasoned lamb, with boiled vegetables and a very mild sauce—and one of the smiling servants introduced Judith, trailing behind her another servant carrying a tray. 

“Thank you for the invitation,” Judith said, dropping onto the chair in front of Claude’s. 

He waited until they were alone to say, “I don’t remember inviting you.”

“Must have slipped your mind, boy.” 

“Oh, in that case.”

They started on their meal in silence, the sound of the cutlery scratching the plates filling the room. The heavy silence should have felt eerie in a place as busy as was the castle, but the main tower where the leader—leaders—of the Alliance took residence was somewhat isolated. 

“So,” Judith brought him out of his contemplation, “where is your husband?”

Claude waved his fork around. “Somewhere on this floor, for sure.”

“He seemed stiff this morning.”

“You mean more than usual?” 

“Maybe he didn’t sleep well.”

“ _ I _ slept wonderfully,” he lied. He didn’t blame the armchair, he’d slept in worse places. He did blame his mouth and his tendency to run it. Maybe their wedding night hadn’t been the best place to accuse Lorenz’s father of murder. But he wasn’t going to tell Judith about that miscalculation. 

Judith narrowed her eyes, unable as of yet to read his mind. “Regardless of your sleeping troubles, your riding was acceptable. My congratulations on not falling off your horse.”

“You could have warned me how impossible the trail was. I would have pretended to be sick.”

“And fail to impress your husband with your riding skills?”

“I almost impressed him into apoplexy during the descent down the last hill. I think it’d have hurt him more than me if I had fallen off.”

Judith's lips curled into the wide, slow smile that signaled she found herself hilarious. “That’s what love is, boy.” 

“Please don’t.” He grimaced, not only because of her comment. As he chewed the last of the tasteless lamb and finished the simple vegetables, he wondered if his taste buds would atrophy in this place. 

“The court is boiling with gossip,” Judith said then, finishing her meal as well, and his ears perked up. “The banquet yesterday was a huge success. Everyone says you two seem to get along so well it was like you weren’t actually getting married.” 

Claude laughed. “You know me: always pleasant.”

“I know him: always courteous.” She sipped her wine. “At least in front of the court. Would I be wrong to guess he didn’t feel as welcoming afterward?” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“I’ve no experience on marriage but I hear you’re in it for the long run.”

“Oh really?”

Judith raised her hands, pacifying. “I’m sure his friends are telling him the same thing, boy."

“Mmm. He’s eating with them? Ordelia and Edmund?”

“And Goneril.”

“Which Goneril?” Claude asked, recalling the very tall man that had made Lorenz laugh at some point of the banquet last night. 

“Lady Hilda. I don’t think he and Holst are as close, only friendly.”

Claude watched the wine move around the bottom of his glass as he tilted it. “When Grandfather sent that letter, I thought I could achieve something great here. I didn’t expect to be set loose in a political minefield  _ and _ a marriage.”

“Your mother—”

“Warned me, I know. I don’t want Lorenz as an enemy but…”

Her rich voice bore not the least sympathy when she said, “You ruined his life?” but the corner of her mouth creased with understanding. 

“Wow. Thanks, Judith.”

“Is that not what he implied?” 

“Only multiple times.”

“I’d say this marriage could ruin both your lives unless you find a solution.” She always found ways to speak the words that he couldn't stop repeating to himself, yet no solution presented itself just for saying it out loud. 

Claude snorted. “I’m confident nobody is saying that to him.”

“Lady Marianne has good sense.”

At least she wasn’t reminding him again about the huge failure his ruse at the patisserie had been. If curiosity killed the cat, it also soured Lorenz’s first impression of him. He still blamed his grandfather’s sudden announcement of the marriage plans—which had been as much news to him as to Lorenz, no matter he seemed to believe otherwise. If it weren’t for that he was sure Lorenz could have come to appreciate their meeting, understanding Claude's benign—or according to some, even endearing—spirit of inquiry. Judith disagreed. 

She sighed, then, looking at him like she did when she came to visit his mother years ago and he rushed to show her his latest trick—a cartwheel or a somersault—and failed, splitting open some part of his anatomy, the pain making him bite back tears. 

There was no threat of tears now, but he would endeavor to produce some if she kept looking at him like that, just to increase the awkwardness. She rolled her eyes when he told her so. 

Rising before anything as drastic as that could happen she moved to the curtains covering the big window of the room; she started parting them, tying them up to the sides. 

“You know it’s going to be dark soon,” Claude reminded her.

“I pulled some strings for this, so you better show some appreciation,” she said.

He pulled away from the table and joined her, intrigued by her words. 

And she didn’t need to say anything else. His breath caught in his throat when he looked through the clear glass of the window. The afternoon was gray and the sun about to set, but none of that mattered. If there was the dimmest light, he would recognize those mountains anywhere. Even from this distance, a nation away, across a border. The mountaintops were white with snow, buried among the lower clouds of the sky, and the rest still the lively green of his childhood summers, when he and his mother traveled away from the Almyran court to rest, to get away from all the comments and the whispers and the gossips about their origins. There were no cousins bigger than himself to pick fights with in those mountains, no bruises he couldn't complain about without learning another synonym for weak. He had learned to ride a wyvern there, over one summer, and the shape of those peaks from above remained burned on his retinas. 

He hadn't been there for years, and yet he missed them like a lung. He hadn't been there for years, and now he was powerless to flee, to spend even a day flying over the mountains that had been his only home, trapped in a place that didn't want him. 

But they were still there. More ancient than his line and his heritage they would remain after he had achieved his goal.

They were still there, and their sight was unadulterated hope.

Clearing his throat, he removed his hand from the window. 

"Thank you, Judith."

"Any time, boy," she said, putting her arm around his shoulders. 

—

He didn’t see Judith the next day. In fact, since that morning they celebrated the traditional tournament to commemorate the beginning of a new leadership, he expected no visitors at all, which was why his attendants were just finishing up, one of them draping a jacket over his shoulders, when there was a knock on the door. The servant announced Captain Leonie of the Jeralt’s Mercenaries, and a young woman walked in. 

“Your Grace.” She bowed. “I received word that you would like to hire our services.”

And yes, he did. Very much indeed. His guard consisted at the moment of—aside from the Riegan troops who he didn’t know or trusted—Cyril and two other Almyran guards. He couldn’t take any more of the best Almyran soldiers and pretend to be anything other than an Almyran noble, at least. 

He had sought and found good references for this company of mercenaries, and although he would have liked to hire them sooner, the frenetic preparations for the wedding had made that impossible. 

Claude met with the captain over breakfast in his anteroom. Leonie was pragmatic and sensible, helped herself to food when Claude offered and had a quick mind. Hard—no, impossible to hassle with, as much as Claude enjoyed a difficult target. She set her prices and Claude, in the end, agreed. She had a bright smile and a strong handshake, and the briskness of her step made Claude believe his new guard would be ready to move in the next day, just as she promised. 

—

And because that was to be a day for encounters, he ran into Lorenz on the stairs. 

To be precise, his entourage ran into Lorenz’s on the stairs, because you needed at least five attendants to get dressed, be served breakfast, eat said breakfast and move around the castle in the Alliance. He had managed to send one of them away and replace him with Cyril, at least. Quiet and unobtrusive Cyril who exchanged a glance with him when things went from foreign to frankly ridiculous. 

There was a moment when nobody moved, trying to search their minds for the correct protocol for the situation. There was no correct protocol for the situation. The Alliance’s leader wasn’t owed the dogmatic reverences that dignified a monarch, but you still bowed respectfully and allowed him preference on the narrow stairs. Claude could feel his four attendants struggling not to retreat to open the path for Lorenz, who they considered their rightful leader, because most citizens in the Alliance did, and because everybody in the castle did, since House Gloucester had been the one to staff it. 

Despite the four or five heads in between, Lorenz’s height made of him an easy sight, which was why Claude saw him compressing his lips; fastidious to a point, and proper, rule-abiding Lorenz closed his eyes for a second and said, in a voice that sounded like he had woken a long time ago and was now very tired, “Lord Riegan, good morning. Please, go ahead.” 

Lorenz watched Claude, and Claude watched the attendants: where Lorenz’s face had been full of long-suffering resignation, the attendants’ were rippling with righteous indignation on Lorenz’s behalf. 

In his place, Claude would have done the same thing, because he would have born in mind the attendants’ reactions to a kind ruler. Lorenz didn’t look at his attendants twice.

“Thank you, Lord Gloucester. Good morning.” 

The only whisper among the attendants that of their garments brushing the polished stone steps. Claude heard the heels of Lorenz’s boots following behind. 

Claude’s thoughts fluttered along these lines as he descended the stairs: Count Gloucester, in Lorenz's place, would have demanded he allowed him to pass. Lorenz, Claude was discovering slowly, was not Count Gloucester. 

That small step towards understanding gave him something to distract himself with until he arrived at the outskirts of Derdriu, where the tournament was to take place. 

\--

The gray clouds from the day before had parted to allow a sun painful in its brightness but cold and weak to remind everyone they were still in the midst of winter. The crowd didn’t seem to mind; not the commoners wrapped in wools and already cheering and singing along with the band of musicians, nor the nobility, sheltered by braziers and drinking mulled wine.

Claude was led to the seats of honor rising higher than the rest with a fantastic view of the arena where the jousting was to set off the competitions. It was the arrival of the leaders which blew air into the herald’s lungs and out into the strident trumpet. The crowd surged, clapping and stomping their feet hard on the wooden platforms. 

Lorenz, by his side, rose to address the spectators amidst the scent of cloves and cinnamon drifting from the wine a servant was pouring; his voice crystalline and harmonious. 

“O’ citizens of the Alliance, your leaders are pleased to welcome you here today to enjoy a delightful tournament with you. Lances shall be broken in your health today, and merriment shared among us all in order to begin a prosperous era. May the Goddess grant us her blessings."

He raised his glass of wine to toast the audience, but was unable to touch it to his lips. Claude thanked the blinding sun, and the clear crystal containing the wine; he thanked the hours he’d spent pouring over books and searching the woods. Because the rays of the sun fell through Lorenz’s wine, and a blue hue painted for a moment the liquid sloshing inside the glass. 

Lorenz brought the glass to his lips as he reclined on the chair, and Claude thrust his hand to intercept it with unthinking speed. He felt the jolt of the glass against the back of his hand, and then the glass was wrenched from Lorenz’s grip and arching through the air until it smashed on the floor a couple of feet away. 

The glass broke with flinching silence, the crash buried beneath the trumpets signaling the beginning of the jousting and the cheers and the riders positioning themselves; but the wine dripping thick and sticky down Lorenz’s chin and neck, staining his white jacket and pooling on the floor spoke louder than splintering lances. Lorenz picked an orange slice that was sliding down his chest with the tip of thumb and forefinger to put it away. 

Words crowded on Claude’s tongue, none of them adequate, not when his husband already thought him paranoid and didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. Not when his own glass, he checked, going so far as to taste it carefully, bore not the blue hue nor the bitter taste of the calendum, the poisonous herb that grew deep within the shadows of humid forests and reacted to direct sunlight by producing a blue pigment. 

He turned to beckon Cyril forward. 

“I need you to find the servant who poured wine for us. Go as fast as you can without raising the alarm,” he said only to his ear. Cyril was already gone when he turned to face his husband, now sporting a murderous glare and a furious blush across his cheeks that blotched all the way down to his neck. 

Claude had once broken an expensive, beautiful vase, his mother’s favorite, playing in her rooms after escaping his tutors. The porcelain had met the floor and burst into a hundred pieces which his ten-year-old mind, not understanding the deed was done and unsalvageable, had struggled to put back together until his mother had arrived. 

The same urge to try and put Lorenz back together reigned now. Except Lorenz would probably bite him if he touched him. 

“There was a wasp,” he said before Lorenz could form speech. 

Lorenz blinked, long lashes fluttering over his eyes once, twice. One of his attendants stepped forward to offer a napkin, and Lorenz switched from blinking to gingerly patting the mess away. 

“A wasp,” he repeated after the napkin had removed only about half of the stains, the rest, sticking to his skin, would need a damp towel. 

“Yes, in the glass. A huge wasp. Maybe a gadfly. You do not want one of those to bite you.” 

Lorenz inhaled deeply; accepting another napkin from a silent attendant he tried to wipe his jacket. Claude noticed a clove tangled in his hair and was picking it up before either he or Lorenz could process the action. A strand of that hair which looked so soft and lustrous and which he must wash and brush and scent daily stuck to Claude’s fingers with the consistency of soaked straw. 

“I may have overreacted. But has a gadfly ever bitten you?”

“I can’t believe this.” Lorenz raised a hand to, presumably, pinch the bridge of his nose, gave up halfway when he realized it was sticky with wine. “A gadfly. What  _ is  _ a gadfly?”

“It’s a bug that—”

“I don’t care.” 

“You asked!” 

"This jacket was a present from Adrestia's Prime Minister," he hissed. 

"I'm sure he'd be glad you weren't bitten by the gadfly," Claude said, a last attempt at levity. 

It failed. 

He remembered Judith’s words. Surely those rumors about how well Lorenz and he got along would cease right now. 

Except that exercising his enormous sense of decorum Lorenz limited the outburst by jerking to his feet; his chair rattled behind him dangerously close to toppling over. 

"I will be right back. Please greet the winner of this bout of jousting in both our names," Lorenz said, and marched down the dais, putting one rigid leg in front of the other, his attendants hovering around him like flies attracted to the sugar of the wine. 

Claude wanted to slid down his chair to the floor. Four pairs of judgmental eyes stopped him. 

"Please, bring a clean chair for Lord Gloucester," he told his attendants. 

Two pairs of judgmental eyes left with the soiled chair. 

The jousters hadn't killed nor thrown each other during the first run, and Claude resigned himself to watching the next two encounters—at least one of them had to remain in the dais—while his mind conjured up the worst possible scenarios for Cyril. He shouldn't have sent him on his own. Yes, he was capable and loyal and smart, but the court which they'd thought safe—as far as courts were—had turned out to be sizzling not only with poisonous snakes but traps left and right too. Only Lorenz's glass had been poisoned, and he was the darling of the court at the moment, his only enemy should have been Claude's supporters.

Claude took a sip of his cup as he swept his gaze over the people gathered around the arena. Witnesses all of them, when investigations began after Lorenz collapsed and woke warped in pain. He wouldn't die, not from calendum alone, but the unbearable cramps that would assault his nerve endings wouldn't be misinterpreted by any physician: and all fingers would point to Claude who had the most to gain from Lorenz’s death, and ample opportunity to poison his husband's glass while the sports distracted him. It wouldn't matter that calendum couldn't even kill rats. They'd think he'd been careless, overconfident, stupid; as if he'd never read every compendium of poisonous roots and herbs he'd gotten his hands on since childhood, both from Almyra and Fódlan. 

And who had the most to gain from Claude’s arrest?

—

Lorenz returned after one of the lesser nobles won the first match. He’d changed the ruined jacket for a dark coat. 

“That was quick,” Claude said. “I told the winner a wardrobe emergency had taken you away, and that you’d address him personally after your arrival. To your left. Nice coat.”

After the promised wave of hand, “Thank you. I chose the color”—a deep maroon—“in case you decided to become spastic again,” said Lorenz, and sat in the new chair, airily flapping the coat-tails of his garment to avoid the puddle of wine on the floor. 

“Wise choice. Gadflies  _ are  _ attracted to lighter colors.” 

A servant, just arrived, moved to serve him wine, but Claude was already offering him a cup his attendants had poured, one that remained dark under the sun. Lorenz eyed the glass, then Claude. The ends of his hair were wet, a strand curling around his pale neck. As he leaned in, the scent of the soap he’d used to clean himself—fresh and potent, overall floral, with the subtle undertones of sharper citrus—enfolded Claude, fragrant and encompassing in the crisp air of the morning; warily, Lorenz reached for the drink, his long fingers cold when their skin touched the moment before he lifted the glass from his grip with a graceful arch of the wrist. 

Then, for his own amusement, because the situation demanded it, “I didn’t put anything in it. Cross my heart,” said Claude, and watched Lorenz roll his eyes and move on, attention refocused on the new horsemen readying their lances, either unaware of the attempt on his person or the best actor Claude had watched in years. 

—

The smell of roses followed him when he excused himself for a moment and left the dais. The last bout of jousting had already started and Cyril still hadn’t come back, and worry, which Claude had managed to cage for a time, soon filled his body with increasing amounts of restless energy. 

He was trailed by his attendants to the tent where a soldier guarded Failnaught, which he was to show off later during the popinjay shoot. Channeling Lorenz at his most fastidious, he said, “You are to wait here for me. I need a moment alone with my bow—my Hero’s Relic—to achieve inner balance for the shoot. Under no circumstances should you enter this tent,” and flapped open the entrance without waiting for their agreement. 

Failnaught, glowing faintly, remained untouched on the table as Claude, pulling a knife from his belt, tore open the canvas on the back of the tent with as concealed a cut as possible. 

Navigating the deserted tents undetected was easy enough, but finding Cyril’s trail took him precious time. Claude had followed what could pass for the footprints of a hurried soldier chasing a fleeing servant—if you possessed the imagination—almost to the end line of the tents, where the walls surrounding Derdriu rose on the other side of the river, when the first sounds of his hunt reached his ears. He sprinted and left the last tent behind; there by the side of the flowing river two figures stood, one in front of the other; a woman was yelling. 

“Please, my lady, if you just let me explain—” That was the calmer of the voices, Cyril’s, drowned almost to completion by the schiller, “I demand to know your intentions,  _ right this instant!”  _

“Cyril! What’s going on?” Claude called out, approaching from behind the woman. 

The lady, responsible for the commotion, whirled to face him, skirts coiling around her feet. “You!” She pointed in his direction with a hand surrounded by a sizzling black cloud, like a thunderous night contained in a fist, which explained Cyril’s hands raised to helplessness by his head. 

“Whoa, there’s no need of that,” Claude said as he, too, raised his hands. 

“Claude!" Cyril said. "I almost had him, but she"—jerking his head to signal—"got in the way.”

“Got in the way? Of what? Your plans to poison Lorenz? That’s right, I saw everything.” She looked younger up close, big eyes and a round face underneath the long white hair.

“Where did the servant go?” he asked Cyril.

"I knew he never should have agreed to the marriage," Lady Lysithea went on over Cyril as he answered, “She warped him somewhere, with her magic.”

“Excuse me?" she rounded on Cyril. "Why would I do something like that? Do you think I go around warping criminals to safety? It was you who alerted him of my presence so that he could escape!” 

“Wait, he warped on his own?” 

"You went to all that trouble with the wedding and now what?” Back to Claude. “You thought better of it and you prefer civil war? That's where we should have faced you, where you couldn't play your dirty poisoning tricks." 

Everytime she whirled around to face either Claude or Cyril her magic trailed behind her arm forming an unsettling arch of energy. 

"I didn't poison anybody," he said slowly, as calm as she was not. 

"And you hire the Empire's scum, of all criminals?"

"What empire scum?" 

“And by the way, calendum isn't deadly. You may want to read a book once in a while.” Oh she was definitely Lorenz's friend. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.“I know calendum isn’t deadly.” 

“So you admit to using it?”

“Of course not. I was the one who stopped him from drinking it in the first place! Did you notice that too?" 

"Then why—"

"—did I send my retainer after the culprit? Maybe to catch him?" 

"But you yelled at me to stop my spell." That was again directed to Cyril. 

"I yelled at the servant to stop running!" 

"Why didn't you raise the alarm? You sent your man to sneak around like a criminal!" 

"I was trying to avoid literally everything that is happening right now. Especially the threatening and the blaming." 

"I wouldn't think you'd done it if—if…" She trailed off, unable to think of an instance where Lorenz was poisoned and Claude, the mysterious heir who had come to steal the Alliance from the House of Gloucester, wasn’t to blame. Her arm relaxed but continued burning with magic. "Are you saying someone tried to frame you?" 

Claude exhaled. Finally. Progress. 

"Lady Lysithea, please put away the nightmary magic and we'll talk." 

"Oh." She waved her hand around until the rippling energy subsided. "I wasn't going to hurt you, relax." 

"Yes, because that was a relaxing experience," said Claude, circling around Lysithea to check on Cyril. "Are you alright?" 

"Yes," he said, like Claude couldn't see the blood staining his right shoulder and seeping through the hand clasped there. "Here." He offered a bloodied knife, hilt first, to Claude. "He threw it as he warped." 

"We have to work on your definition of alright," Claude sighed and put away the knife for the time being to help Cyril out of his jacket and search for something to use to stop the bleeding. 

"You're hurt." Lysithea, who had been approaching them with tentative steps, lost all hesitancy when she saw the blood. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Cyril looked to Claude over her head, and finding no help there, finally muttered, "You didn't seem very worried about my health," matter-of-fact, without as much accusation as Claude would have put into the words. 

Lysithea clicked her tongue, as if it were Cyril being unreasonable, and slapped without ceremony Claude's hands out of the way to check the wound's size and depth for herself, tearing Cyril's shirt further apart. The knife had pierced the place where arm and torso joined. 

"If we stop the bleeding first I can make sure the articulation heals perfectly," she said after a quick examination. Claude offered the handkerchief he'd found tucked in his jacket pocket, but Lysithea, too fast for teamwork, had already produced her own from somewhere and was pressing it against the wound open-handed, jamming her palm hard on it. Cyril clenched his jaw, his breath hitching under the assault, but remained silent, though he took a step back, for a moment unbalanced. Claude put a steady hand on the center on his back. 

Lysithea only raised her eyes for a moment to look at her patient. "Maybe we should have sat you down first," she said, adding, "Don't pass out." 

"I'll do my best," Cyril agreed, pale but planting his feet. 

"Have you done this before?" Claude asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Lysithea barely spared a glance in his direction. "Of course I have." 

"With a human person?" 

A long pause followed. 

"Can  _ I _ pass out?" Claude asked. 

"If that will make you stop distracting me then yes, please." 

Cyril huffed a breath. 

"Oh, he finds that funny, unbelievable." 

A triumphant glow softened Lysithea's stern features for a second. Then she returned to business, lifting the soaked handkerchief and discarding it once she saw the bleeding had stopped. 

"Yes," she said. "The worst is over. Now keep still." 

And her hand hovered over the wound, emitting a soft glow. Faith magic still shocked him, barely extended through Almyra where they still preferred the work of physicians. But now he knew what to expect, and watched the wound close as Cyril's tense muscles loosened fraction by fraction, his creased brow relaxing as the pain faded. 

"Perfect," Lysithea said, jubilant. Her mouth stretched into a smile, and for the first time since Claude had met her, her frown relaxed. 

Gazing down at her, still blinking through the fog of sudden relief, Cyril softened his face to match hers. "Thank you, my lady." 

"Try to move your arm," she said, stepping back to give him space. 

Cyril went and lifted his arm all the way up. 

" _ Slowly _ ! Goddess, do you want to ruin all my hard work?" Her bloodied fingers closed over his wrist to bring down his arm at a more controlled pace; from there she used her grip to guide his movements and roll his shoulder carefully, ordering him to tell her if he felt any pain or numbness. Claude searched Cyril’s face for any signs of agony, but he only found there quiet astonishment—directed at the Faith magic’s wonders or at the tiny lady instructing him like a battalion general, Claude could only have guessed. 

Once sure Cyril wasn't about to topple over, he retrieved the guilty knife from his belt. The hilt was a simple black, as unobtrusive as the sharp blade stained now with blood. He knelt to wipe it on the grass covering the ground, and it was then he noticed, because he grabbed the knife upside down, the symbol engraved on the base of the hilt: a relief of silver flames bright on the dark background. 

“I knew I’d seen the Flames etched in the servant's hood," Lysithea muttered to herself. Then, "Do you recognize it?” she asked, taking the knife from him as he rose. 

“The Crest of Flames,” he said. 

“You know what that stands for?” With an arched eyebrow. 

“Who do you take me for?”

“Someone who lived under a rock until two months ago.” 

“I didn’t live under a rock.” 

“Where  _ did  _ you live?” 

Claude sighed, looking fondly upon her. “If only it were that easy,” he said, helplessly amused by her attempt. 

She hummed, pensive, thumbing the flames on the knife. Cyril returned then from the river, water dripping from his arm but mostly free of bloodstains; he would remain inconspicuous once he put on the black jacket. Claude noticed he was wringing a small wet cloth in his hands. 

“I thought the Empire wiped out that whole organization. What were they called? You used to make fun of their name,” said Cyril, recognizing the symbol as well. 

Claude grimaced. “Those Who Slither In the Dark.” 

“Didn’t wipe out all of them,” said Lysithea, knuckles white around the knife. Her hand shook slightly, and it could have been because of the cold or the adrenaline or the post-spell exhaustion, but everyone in the Alliance knew what had happened to House Ordelia. 

Claude exchanged a glance with Cyril. 

“I think you should go back, Lysithea,” he said. “They’re going to miss you any moment now.” He covered her hand with his own, gently retrieving the knife from her grip. Her hands were freezing. As if breaking from a trance she startled, looking up; her pupils wide, drowning the color of her eyes. 

“We—” She had to clear her throat. “We aren’t done here.” 

“I agree. And you know where I live.”

She narrowed her eyes. 

The sound of drums, for once welcomed to Claude’s ears, interrupted whatever complaint her mouth hadn’t yet formed. 

“The Popinjay Shoot is about to start,” Cyril reminded him. “You should go back as well.”

“You’re right.” Claude clapped his hands, the harsh sound startling in the deserted bank of the river. “Alright, look alive. Cyril, I want you to go to your room and lie down. No, don’t give me that, it’s an order. You, Lysithea, are you up to going back to the tournament? If not, claim to feel indisposed. To be honest, you look ready for a convenient fainting spell.”

“I’m going back. I want to keep an eye on—” She cut herself off. 

“Lorenz, huh?" Not news to him, their friendship, but Claude always thought safe to assume relationships at court shallow pools made of favors exchanged until proven otherwise. "You’re a good friend. Are you going to tell him anything about this?”

She lifted her chin, defiant. “And if I am?”

“I can’t stop you, but do you think it’s wise? Can you be sure those he trusts are deserving of it?” 

“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.” Reluctance colored her words. “But I’ll keep my mouth shut, at least until we speak about this in detail.”

“As I said, you know where I live. Now we depart. I have to collect four attendants and a bow on my way to the tournament. And we can’t arrive together.” 

Lysithea nodded, only needing a moment to smooth her skirts and rearrange her hair before she bowed formally to him, said, “I still don’t trust you, Your Grace,” and turned to leave. 

“Wait!” Cyril called. She looked at him over her shoulder. “May I… Your Grace, permission to escort Lady Lysithea back to the tournament? To assure her safety.” 

“I think I showed I can handle myself,” Lysithea protested. 

“Agreed,” Cyril said. “But I owe you, for my shoulder.” 

Claude recognized that mulish set of the jaw, the one with which Cyril had told him he was accompanying him to the Leicester Alliance, whether his Prince wanted it or not. It was because he recognized it, and had been unable to do anything about it for the five years he’d known Cyril, since back when he reached only his chest, that he sighed and asked Lysithea to humor him. Not that the lady seemed to be any more easily swayed. But this time she gave in. Small mercies. 

“Fine. You may. Now let’s go,” she said, and Cyril had to jog to catch up. 

“Afterward it’s bed rest for the whole day for you!” Claude called to Cyril’s back. 

When their silhouettes disappeared between the tents, Claude allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. 

Then he inhaled, as deep as his lungs could expand. Hard to believe it was yet morning and the whole day stretched ahead of him: lunch when he would have to pretend to get along with his husband, an afternoon full of enjoying sports, unable to keep his eyes away from Lorenz because what if someone tried to harm him again? Should he have raised the alarm? canceled the tournament? Letting his breath out slowly, he secured the knife in his belt, well hidden under the folds of his jacket, and put one foot in front of the other until he arrived at the torn back of the tent outside which his attendants were waiting. 

—

Lorenz descended the dais among the expectant stares of the crowd to give him a rose before he moved to take his place in line besides the rest of archers.

“For luck,” he said as he latched it in an eyelet of his lapel. 

“I hope my clumsy hands bring you joy this time,” Claude answered, also in a voice meant to carry. 

Later, he would think he handled what happened next with the customary aplomb. At the moment, when Lorenz raised his hand and brushed his thumb over the side of Claude’s neck beneath his ear—a gesture startling for its intimacy and unexpected for the unspoken boundaries they had established—he could but blink and close his parted lips. But Lorenz was frowning, not putting on a show. He pulled away and Claude saw his thumb painted red. 

“A gadfly bite?” Lorenz asked, glacial. 

Claude didn’t say anything, and the crowd roared for the shooting to begin, and so begin it did. 

He shook his head, closed his fingers around Failnaught with a steady grip, and moving to position, focused his gaze and his mind on the towering pole feets away where a lonely bird—a bright spot, the size of his thumb, red and green against the sky—protested his confinement and urged against his restraints. 

The Popinjay Shoot, as Judith had explained, dated back to the founding of the Alliance, when at some point after the Crescent Moon War someone had decided to tie a bird to a tall pole and shoot arrows at it. Claude had thought his mastery of archery would allow for a less violent sort of sport—not like jousting, where he’d read sometimes the splinters of the lances pierced the eyes of the horsemen. Not the case, at least his target wouldn’t think so. 

A servant moved down the line of archers offering them arrows. Each participant would shoot a total of four times, but only twice in a row before allowing the participant on their right to step into position and shoot. 

Claude was the third to step forward after four arrows had gone wide of the mark. He aimed and met his target. And the arrow sunk in the wooden pole, piercing not flesh but rope. 

The crowd rippled with a collective sigh of disappointment.

The colorful popinjay which everyone expected to see pierced by an arrow, gracing the world with even more red than that of his plumage, flew away, fluttering his wings anxiously until it left behind the crowds and the noise and the sharp arrows flying in its direction. The crowd, enchanted by the Bow Relic, didn’t lament for too long the lack of the anticipated ending, especially when Claude showed off and shot the rest of his arrows in a perfect vertical line beneath the first arrow which had severed the rope, on top of the now-vacant pole. 

—

“You aren’t participating in anything, are you?” Claude asked after retiring to his seat by Lorenz’s side to wait for the next sport to begin as they were served lunch. He had been welcomed with high praise for his archery feat: "You missed." 

“No,” Lorenz now answered. Every time he sipped his drink Claude had to make a conscious effort not to clench his jaw. “I usually look forward to the javelin throw during the Summer Soulstice Tournament, but in winter the sun sets much too early for it. And the crowds prefer...rowdier sports.” 

“Ah. That must be why I’ve heard Holst Goneril is the favorite at every tournament.” 

Lorenz let out an amused breath. Not unusual, when Holst was involved. 

“Yes. He has been champion of the sword melee three years in a row, and was defeated only once in the ax throw by his sister.”

“Only the once?”

“Yes. Hilda rarely participates in these things. She only did so that time because Holst promised he would allow her to travel to the Empire on her own if she won—that is, with two regiments of guards, hers and Marianne’s, who went with her, but still.”

A blend of affection and delight dripped from his voice, thick as honey, when he talked about his friends. Claude didn't need to see them together to know Lorenz held them close to his heart. And Lysithea’s glare every time Claude looked up from his meal and accidentally met her gaze seemed to indicate the sentiment was mutual. Only to be expected, he guessed, after growing by your peers, your equals, raised under the same values while sharing similar experiences of the world. 

He found Lorenz looking at him when he put his glass down. 

“Do you know, it is said that if an arrow cuts off the popinjay’s rope then the archer responsible is to have bad fortune for a year?”

“I did not know that,” Claude said, and meant it. He felt his mood shifting, interest perking up. “Do they say what I can to do escape it?” 

Lorenz raised an eyebrow at the mirth he couldn’t quite keep out of his voice. Stories, legends, they had plagued his days and fed his dreams as a boy; yet his mother had never mentioned a popinjay that brought bad luck to its savior. 

“Find the popinjay and shoot an arrow through its heart,” Lorenz said, not as solemn as he probably intended to sound. 

“But then I’m doomed; ill-fated; bedeviled! For my skill cannot match such a task.” 

A smile, as fleeting as it was rare, graced Lorenz’s lips for a moment; one Claude found himself returning when he noticed the glowing amusement on his face was the real thing, and not a mask for the courtiers watching. 

“Oh, but it’s even worse if you did it on purpose,” Lorenz warned. “Then tonight the bird you freed shall appear in your rooms, transforming into a woman of ethereal beauty or a man handsome as summer. If you fail to resist their advances, you will follow them into the horizon to never be seen again.” 

“Do you think there are those who do it just for that?” 

“I know there are some who try. You are the first to succeed.” 

“Am I?” He mused. “Or is that wishful thinking on your part, so that you are finally freed of me by tomorrow morning?” 

“That sounds very tempting indeed,” said Lorenz, giving him a sidelon glance. His finger started tracing the rim of his glass. “So, before you disappear into the horizon, why did you do it?”

Claude shrugged.

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

Lorenz tapped his fingers against the glass of wine, a soundless movement because he wore no rings. His hands were the simpler part of him, not for that any less graceful. 

“Goddess," said Lorenz, "you truly detest answering questions." Not fully exasperated yet. 

He thought he had hidden it better than that. The servant escaping and the mystery of the knife still in his belt had clouded his head. He didn't mean to rush the pause that followed, yet the words left him in the same breath. “Is it so weird? Not to want to kill a helpless animal for sport?”

“The hunts organized on Gloucester territory are famous in the Alliance,” Lorenz, voice flat, gave as explanation. “Did your extensive research into my family not show that?”

Famous didn’t really hit the mark. Gloucester’s hunts were a spectacle of unrestrained extravagance and excess. Claude liked hunting: finding a hidden trail, remaining motionless until one became invisible; hunter and prey taking advantage each of them of their own skills. What Gloucester did—dozens of hares or foxes transported in boxes, released to the sudden brightness of the day, harassed by hounds and humans until death—was not hunting.

“Your fath—” Claude bit on the words, too late. Lorenz’s hand jerked, and he moved it away from the wine. He really shouldn’t push it, and yet, “Your father organizes those hunts,” came out of his mouth. “I was asking for your opinion.” That last part more deliberate, an attempt to take the conversation to a safer zone—lunch still a ways to go; an offering which Lorenz didn’t take, looking ahead of him with a blank expression. 

In the silence that followed Claude couldn't help but seek Count Gloucester on the stands. Of course he wasn’t far, for the more important families sat closer to the dais, and the Gloucester colors easily caught the eye, noticeable on the servants’ liveries. A lot was to blame on that man. Lorenz could, if he ever found out, hold him accountable for bringing Claude into the Alliance, as indirectly as that had happened. After all, his grandfather would have never sent him a letter offering him his rightful heritage if the fate of the Alliance wasn’t in the grasp of a House that had the blood of the previous leader on their hands. Godfrey could have died by natural causes, and Duke Riegan would have let the leadership of the Alliance follow its course and move on to another family. But suspicions plagued his old mind, and as much as Claude had thought it at first the ramblings of a dying man, there were letters, unsigned, coded, impossible to prove Gloucester’s in front of a tribunal, but real, plotting a coup just before Godfrey had died under strange circumstances; and Riegan spies claimed to be able to gather more information, only they needed more time. 

If they hadn’t needed more time, and Claude could have proved Gloucester as a traitor and a murderer before the Roundtable had voted, before the wedding, he wouldn’t be sitting next to his heir. He would be leading on his own. 

And Lorenz? 

Would he have been found guilty of conspiracy and sentenced? Or thrown into the streets stripped of his name, his title, his money, his pride?

Claude returned his attention to the plate in front of him, unseeing. All of that could still happen, if Lorenz had had anything to do with Godfrey’s murder. The marriage could save him, his name survive through him and their union, if he hadn’t. Duke Riegan and Judith thought Lorenz innocent of his father's crimes. Claude, reticent at first, had ended up being swayed to agree with them at times: the simple astonishment erasing Lorenz’s fury the night before, after Claude had accused Count Gloucester; the clear fact someone had tried to poison Lorenz without his knowledge; his disregard for anything but the strictest manners; it all pointed to a sincere ignorance of any of the underhanded tactics that had allowed not only treason, but murder. 

How deliberate the blessed scarf covering Lorenz’s eyes to the truth was, Claude couldn’t tell yet. 

He had a lot to thank Count Gloucester for: his dream of breaking down the borders between Almyra and the Alliance wouldn’t have been possible if he held power only over Almyra. But—

And Lorenz? 

How did he figure into that plan of his? How would Claude walk the necessary steps to bring two nations together with Lorenz chained to him, slowing his progress? That he hadn't conspired and betrayed as his father didn't mean he wasn't as power-grabbing as every duke in the Alliance, concerned only for status and wealth and uncaring of the people living under the conditions the two of them would create together. 

Claude blamed his grandfather for that particular headache. His grandfather the Duke who, bedridden again, had taken a turn for the worse and would, according to healers, in less than a year leave behind all of his suspicions to him. 

“Look,” Lorenz said, because they had remained quiet for a long time, and the court, the court, the court. “The ax throw is about to begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and lovely comments!!! <333 I'm so excited to keep writing this fic and hope you guys like the new update!!   
> My intention was to choose a song from my playlist for each chapter but I kind of played myself there because all of the songs are angsty love songs and these two fools aren't there yet SIGH slowburn is hard.   
> Thanks for reading :)


	3. III

What responsibilities Lorenz had anticipated the position of leader would encompass soon manifested. The audiences filling an already tight schedule, the reports, documents, letters that needed to be approved, read, signed; those were expected, for those he had received proper training since infancy in the form of constant tutors versed in economics and politics and law and agriculture and mathematics and other subjects he would soon need to remember. 

There had been no preparation for the constant presence by his side. 

If the lunches and dinners with the court had tested every deferential bone in Lorenz’s body, the endless discussions in the council chamber lent a nostalgic tint to even the most teeth-pulling meals; lately all of them, since his husband slighted the food in his plate and refused to offer eloquent criticism that Lorenz could transmit to the cook—an esteemed employee of House Gloucester since Lorenz’s childhood who his father had recommended for the open position. 

One night, after hours of uninterrupted arguments about whether staffing the Bridge of Myrddin with soldiers would send the wrong message to the Empire, Claude showed the first signs of frustration, letting his breath out slowly through his nose. He had pushed away his dinner plate, practically untouched, to allow space for the stack of documents he hauled to his side of the table. 

The marinated salmon cut into perfect squares on a slice of buttered bread drew Lorenz's eyes. He had finished his own dinner enough time ago that the sight of the soggy bread was appetizing. More than that, Claude's latest nonsense with food was driving him crazy. Unthinking, he said, "And what is the matter with your meal? I will have you know, the head cook worked at my house for years and never failed to bring perfection to every dish." He grabbed Claude's fork to take a bite for himself. "I have asked you time again to tell me of your wishes so that I may put in a word if you find the recipes—"

A hand arrested his arm as he raised the fork, fingers closing tightly around his wrist. The unexpected precipitation of the action more than the force of it startled Lorenz, the sudden movement rolling the food down the fork onto the table. It went ignored on both their parts as it fell on House Goneril’s tax report. Lorenz looked from that overconfident hand encompassing his wrist to its owner, whose brow was carved in a deep line. Foreign for a moment, either Claude with his jaw set and mouth downturned or the still air that rose to surround them. Claude's palm seeped persistent heat into Lorenz's wrist where skin met skin; he could feel the calloused grip digging into his wrist, and knew to recognize it as that of an archer, used to handle the shaft of willowy arrows with conscious strength; with those swift, maddening fingers with which Claude twirled pen after pen meeting after meeting. 

They were gazing at one another, wrist in hand, as the voices of the advisers around the room dimmed until extinction; Claude’s face sharp and severe before he cut away his eyes to take in the room. Lorenz didn't need to do the same to know every focus was on them. 

Then that same alacrity with nothing to motivate it that Lorenz could see had Claude releasing him. Lorenz lowered his arm on the table—fork and food forgotten—and made the conscious effort not to cover his wrist. 

“Sorry about that,” Claude said, low, rubbing his jaw—with his other hand, he noticed. The treacherous one was braced against the table. And in a louder voice to return the meeting to its tracks, "Let’s take another look at the Empire’s defenses of the bridge, shall we?" He was moving the plate away from Lorenz to the other side of the table, rearranging papers and pens and inkwells. 

And, "Of course," Lorenz said redirecting his eyes to their spies’ reports on the table, blinking as if that would either dissipate his confusion or the burning around his wrist—not pain, for Claude had not used force, but the impression and permanent knowledge of his husband’s hand on his skin and his—displeasure? It was the first time Claude looked anything but half-hearted. 

—

And his eccentricities didn’t end there. The tournament, although weeks past, was still fresh in Lorenz's mind, and their conversation after the popinjay shoot. His father had told him multiple times not to give a second thought to the lives of lesser beings, and he still remembered scrubbing away tears after his father took him to his first hunt. And now here Claude was, thinking as he had nearly a decade ago when he was but an immature child, uncultured and foolish. Ridiculous. 

The latest headache bloomed after he noticed the new soldiers under Claude’s command, one of which accompanied Claude everywhere along with the short retainer he called Cyril. Knowing asking to be useless, he had managed to learn from the red-headed soldier—Leonie, if he remembered correctly—that they were no less than a  _ mercenary  _ company. 

Their meeting that afternoon during which Claude had answered none of his questions about why would he for the love of the Goddess hire a mercenary band remained one of the most frustrating experiences of Lorenz’s life. 

"Are you aware how poorly this reflects on both of us? We are the leaders of the Alliance, not a minor lord seeking to dispose of some bandits!" Lorenz had said when the advisors left the council room. "We have servants, guards, soldiers, knights. Workers trained to do their jobs in an exemplary manner befitting their position, selected for their education and achievements."

Claude's answer, calm and collected: "And we pay them as I pay the mercenaries, and we let them go if they fail. I will do the same, if Jeralt's Company disappoints me." 

"Our staff serves us because they wish to uphold the noble status of our government and protect our House," he hissed. "It is an honor that should not be lightly given, to serve the leading House of the Alliance."

"So should we stop paying them, then?" Claude had turned to one of the men guarding the doors, said, "Do you agree with that?" causing the young soldier to blush and stammer his way through an answer. 

Lorenz had had to excuse the poor man before Claude could further entrap him into a purposeless discussion. "I shall only ask for a reason, then." 

"I wish to reach middle age, at least. And what else do I do with all that money in the treasury?" 

Furthermore, Gloucester spies had written to report some new findings, but they all concerned Claude’s man Cyril and not Claude himself. Hiring a former Almyran prisoner as a guard was something only Claude would think to do, but again, not something Lorenz could stop him from doing. 

Even as the Guardian Moon came to its end, the agricultural surveys, the distribution of capital, authorizations to strengthen the Locket and to redistribute more forces to guard the bridge of Myrddin—meetings which shouldn’t have taken any more than an hour of their schedule, ate away all their afternoons well into the night, the advisers retiring one by one to their rooms until only the two of them remained, alone. 

Lorenz didn’t inquire after Claude’s mercenaries or his eating habits again, and observed he started missing breakfast more and more frequently. The evening they were discussing Fódlan’s Locket—one of the Alliance’s touchiest subjects and a complete punishment to discuss with Claude—Lorenz received tragic news. A servant interrupted them to tell him the castle washhouse had returned his Adrestian jacket unable to wipe the wine stains off. He had hoped to wear it for Ferdinand’s visit during New Year’s Eve. 

Claude had offered a weak look of repentance. “I can pay for it?”

“I told you it was a gift,” he said, gritting his teeth, then scoffing, “And I wouldn’t take your money.” 

“It’s our money,” said Claude. “Since we’re married.”

If that reminder didn’t predict an awful meeting, what did. Not that Lorenz ever forgot. He had managed, at first, a careful self-delusion, but that soon faded away as every day was spent in his company. Claude was the person with whom Lorenz most spoke, and even if the conversations were always related to work or to keep up appearances in front of the court, they still served to learn unwanted, unsurprising facts about his husband. It was one thing to notice his constant absence from the castle chapel, but another to sit through the two-hour debate he had started with the High Priest of the Eastern Church who had come to a morning audience to petition for more funds. 

And in his spare time he had to read up on whatever his spies had found on him. Which was frustratingly useless. 

"Do you want Almyra at our doorstep?" Lorenz was saying hours later. He threw his hands upward—it was late enough that they were alone in the council room; not that the presence of the advisers would have stopped Lorenz. He had to wake in four hours. "You are offering them the Alliance if we do not reinforce the Locket." 

"House Goneril has the matter under control, it's not like the Almyran forces have threatened us as of late. And we cannot ask Margrave Edmund for any more funding, or troops he doesn’t have after he was the one to pay for the majority of repairs of the fortress guarding the Locket.”

“And you are so certain the Almyrans will not decide to attack us tomorrow? Edmund can well afford to pay for more troops, have you read the report on his taxes?” Lorenz lifted papers, pushed away stacks of as-yet-unread letters. Where was—

“Have  _ you  _ read it?” said Claude holding said report between heart and middle finger. 

“Of course I have!” he said, and seized the document from Claude’s grasp. 

His eyes scanned over the familiar sentences. Margrave Edmund possessed the richest lands of the Alliance, not only that, but his territory opened to the ocean, being one of the most traveled points of the Alliance with the incoming of merchants and tourism that signified, placing second only to the capital. 

“I’m aware of Edmund’s imposing financial situation, but I believe we have asked all we can of him this year.”

As Claude said, the Margrave’s finances hugely outnumbered that of any other duke, which was why the report Lorenz was reading made absolutely no sense. He was reluctant to admit that he must have overlooked it, and couldn’t solely blame exhaustion and exasperation: he had been reading reports about Edmund’s taxes for years; he had written paper after paper for his tutors about how much he gained from wheat, olives, maize and potatoes and how much in turn he paid to the treasury in taxes. The number always surpassed the four digits. 

But not this year.

Yet the report was adequate, the maths acceptable. Claude let him read and process in silence until he lifted his eyes from the paper. 

“Well?” Claude said, raising his eyebrows. 

It didn’t pain him to admit it so much as it curled something sour in his stomach. He said, “I see you were right. I must have confounded the report with last year’s in my head.” 

Claude’s shoulders relaxed by a fraction. It wasn’t the look of smugness Lorenz had expected, and when he opened his mouth he didn’t gloat, but said, “Does this mean we agree to leave Edmund out of the Locket’s line of suppliers for the moment?” slowly, like Lorenz would change his mind at any moment. 

The reluctance to agree he experienced, when he had checked the numbers with his own eyes and knew Claude’s approach was the correct one sat wrongly in his stomach: they had become more used to disagreeing than the opposite. It was one thing to mistrust Claude—only sensible, truly—but to hinder the government of the Alliance by refusing to listen—

He spoke without thinking, to himself; half in frustration, half in horror. “We can’t continue bickering as we are.” 

Claude, not deaf, heard his words, and on his face surprise blinked for the silent moment that followed. In the long pause of astonishment Lorenz almost had time to regret his words; then, “But what could you possibly mean?” Claude said, rounding his eyes. “Is one single agreement in a month not standard procedure? It only took us thirty whole days to see eye to eye.”

Lorenz exhaled a quiet breath through his nose. “I would rather call it finding middle ground,” he said, unaware until Claude ducked his head and his shoulders shook of how easily he returned to debate. “I—didn’t mean—” 

“It’s fine.” His eyes wrinkled at the corners, Lorenz saw, when he raised his head and rested his chin on his hand. "We can't agree on  _ everything _ all of a sudden. I’d require a physician from the shock.” 

Lorenz was still holding the report. Claude picked it up from his hand and with a flourish sealed it along with the letter that had started it all: Edmund writing to refuse to give any more gold to the Locket’s fortress. He looked at his husband stacking the papers together and rolling them, binding them, filing them away in the folder correspondent to Edmund, all with swift efficiency. Because he was looking at him so intently—only ordinary, to be stunned after realizing how wilful his deafness to Claude’s articulate suggestions had been, after his husband showed Lorenz's selfsame attention to detail and deliberate consideration to the Alliance's wellbeing—he saw the moment Claude froze. 

“Why did say you mistook the tax report with last year’s?” He frowned. 

The hot tendrils of shame crept upwards from his neck. “I must have failed to read this year’s report to completion,” he said, unable to help the defensive tone in his voice. 

But Claude shook his head. “No, no. I mean, are the reports so different?”

Lorenz gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. Edmund always pays a far greater sum in taxes. But this year he had fewer crops than usual due to the drought we suffered in summer.”

“His report is flawlessly detailed,” Claude mused, touching his fingers to his lips. 

“As is usual with the Margrave, yes. He knows where every piece of gold came from, and detests those dukes that can’t be bothered to give a proper report on their finances.” 

“Mmm,” was all Claude said, gaze lost somewhere on the table separating them. He seemed to return to himself and moved as if to reopen the folder, but arrested his hands at the last moment, instead clasping them together on the table. “Should we write him back tomorrow? I think we can call it a day for now.” 

He looked tired, Lorenz realized now for the first time, dark circles under his eyes. Yet he must have looked tired for as long as Lorenz had been, longer than that. 

“Of course,” Lorenz answered. “I think we made progress today.” He stood, rigid after so long sitting, but mostly unsure how to leave. They never parted on good terms like this, usually Lorenz left the room stripped of his patience and his good manners. He finally opted for a hesitant, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lorenz,” said Claude, and his lips curled. 

—

Their first accord was like a door opening. They managed, walking tentative steps and spending, all the same, many hours in the council room, to reach some more agreements.  _ Some _ . Lorenz still fell upon his bed weak with exhaustion, but feeling the pride and relief of accomplishment, not the choking palpitations of understated anger. 

Such was their improvement that the fruits of their labor soon were on the lips of the court. 

Less than a week had passed when at breakfast Hilda slid into Claude’s seat—usually unoccupied; in spite of their newly-found understanding he still preferred to take his breakfast in his rooms, which Lorenz appreciated as it allowed them to spend at least some time apart from each other. 

“So, I heard you’ve learned to play nice with Claude. Are congratulations in order?” Hilda said. She and Marianne had remained in Derdriu after their respective brother and father had left for their territories, normally the case when they approached the end of the year, as Derdriu filled with merchants and quaint markets and decorations which neither of them liked to miss. Lysithea, despite never caring much for such things and having the burden of taking care of her House’s business, had decided to stay this year as well. 

“I am merely doing my duty,” Lorenz said, but added, “Though yes, I wouldn’t say no to congratulations.” 

“Ooooh, is that your I-deserve-a-celebration voice? Are we having a party? I’ve been  _ so  _ bored since you got married and became leader, ugh. You’re busy every day,” she pouted. 

“I am here every morning,” he said rising his eyebrows. “If only you’d wake up at a decent hour!” 

The dining hall that bourgeoned with the voices of all the nobles at court during lunch and dinner times remained throughout breakfast a quiet, almost deserted room. Marianne chose to visit the chapel to pray at this hour—which reminded Lorenz he ought to do the same sometime soon—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Lysithea, so most mornings he spent breakfasts in contemplation, sipping his tea alone. 

“I’m here today, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, I thought I was seeing a ghost. What are you doing out of bed so early in the morning?” 

Hilda smiled. Lorenz put his cup down with a foreboding feeling in his chest. 

“I told you, I was bored! I miss you!” 

He narrowed his eyes. “You do?”

“Oh, Lorenz, you’re so suspicious,” she said, slapping his arm with the back of her hand as she proceeded to serve herself a cup from Lorenz’s teapot. “You need to relax. Yes, you’re the younger leader the Alliance’s ever had—”

“Claude is younger than me.”

Hilda rolled her eyes, saying, “Good for him. What I was saying, you’re under a lot of pressure and you need to find something to do that isn’t spending all your time with those mummified advisors."

It was almost enough to warm Lorenz's heart, except, of course, "And my birthday is less than two weeks away! You haven't forgotten, have you?" she continued. 

His lips twitched. "Is it?" 

Before she could pout and complain one of Lorenz’s attendants approached with a tray. “Your Grace, your mail”—putting a stack of personal correspondence in front of him—“and this was left in your rooms.”

This: a fancy small paper bag smelling of cinnamon and at once familiar accompanied by a note folded in half. 

“What’s that?” Hilda gasped by his side.

Nothing but routine, once, to receive suitor’s gifts in his rooms—Lorenz was aware of his position and wealth and knew to give the presents the significance which they intended; nothing more than, sometimes, a pair of nice eyes that wanted to be seen with the Gloucester heir, a tall second son who needed connections; so a bouquet of roses would be exchanged for a fancy dinner, affording the court a few days’ gossip, or a gold bracelet for a stroll through the market at its busiest hour. From time to time the dinners were entertaining, his companion pulled out his chair before he sat, and offered his arm as they walked side by side, or they exchanged a knowing gaze as leg pressed against leg under the table. From time to time while the courtiers gossiped about a gallant kiss brushed against a cheek, Lorenz spent the night in the bed of a handsome face or, if his father was away, invited them to the manor.

Of course, not since the wedding. What would someone need to spend to become the lover of the Alliance’s leader? 

“‘ _To finding middle ground. Someone once said to me these were the best in Derdriu._ ’ What does that mean?” Hilda asked squinting at the note in her hands. 

Lorenz snatched the paper back. “What did you say?” But he could read for himself. He deciphered every word—only an easy task because he had become familiar with that handwriting by now—until there was no room for misunderstandings. Then, underneath the first sentence, another, one Hilda had failed to read, between parenthesis as if an afterthought, each word scribbled close together.

“What does the second line say?”

Telling Hilda would be a mistake. Not doing so a deed for those more hard-wearing—or less experienced with Hilda’s perseverance when it came to gossip—than Lorenz. 

“It says,”—he sighed—“‘ _Also, I really am sorry I ruined your jacket._ ’” 

Hilda’s shriek drew the eye of every drowsy courtier peacefully eating their breakfast. “Since when is he giving you gifts? What is happening right now?” She spoke in a low tone, at least, voice breathless with shock and amusement. 

“This is the first time. And it is not a gift. He is merely apologizing, as well he should, that jacket must have cost Ferdinand a fortune.”

“He is the Prime Minister, he can afford it.” Hilda waved a hand to dismiss this line of conversation. “Is Claude aware you two are married? He doesn’t have to court you anymore.” Lorenz felt heat rush to his face, the shock at Hilda’s scandalous words silencing him for a moment. “Just what kind of  _ progress  _ have the two of you been making all those late nights in the council room?” 

“Hilda!” he finally managed to hiss. More than inappropriate, to insinuate that this innocuous offering was anything other than a polite apology. “That is ridiculous. We are partners— No, coworkers, trying to ensure the fate of a nation. It is only conscientious to wish to assure a proper relationship with the person you work with.”

“Oooh, so he is  _ conscientious  _ now. Goddess Lorenz, people usually start by saying things like  _ He has nice eyes  _ or  _ I just want to grab his firm, toned—” _

He wasn’t proud of the choked sound that came from the back of his throat, but it at least stopped Hilda’s speech. “This is inappropriate to discuss at court, of all places, and you are severely mistaken. Ours is a professional relationship. I admit that I judged him too harshly and we are starting to move past our...initial misgivings. But,” he rushed to add when Hilda’s eyes brightened, “he still made baseless accusations against my family, refuses to share his past, and is lacking in so many aspects which any noble, let alone the ruler of the Alliance, should excel at as to be frankly embarrassing.”

She clicked her tongue. “You used to be more fun. I’ve talked to him at lunch sometimes, I don’t know what you find so lacking. My brother has the worst table manners in the Alliance, and you never minded.”

“That was different.” He sipped from his cup of tea, lukewarm by now. Any mention of Holst that came from Hilda used to foretell no easy conversation for Lorenz, but that was in the past. Now he was married, he had no time for useless infatuations. “Your brother was never raised to be the leader of the Alliance. He is our revered defender of the border, a warrior and a leader….” He cleared his throat. “Holst earns respect through battle. Claude hires mercenaries, manipulates our advisors through endless debates and wordplay; he doesn’t even know how to ride a horse!” He shook his head. “But none of this is the point. The point is that this is merely a peace offering and I am happy to continue as we are, working for the best of the Alliance and nothing else.”

Plucking the note from Hilda’s fingers Lorenz tucked it into his jacket pocket, hoping the conversation over. He picked up the letters waiting on the silver tray in front of him and swept his eyes over the senders. 

“Fine, moving on, then.” The sounds of cutlery on porcelain signaled her return to her breakfast. “But I am telling Marianne about this.” 

“It is not a…” He didn’t finish the sentence; as his eyes landed on an envelope thicker than the rest his heart lurched inside his chest. 

“Are you alright, Lorenz?” Hilda said. 

“Yes. Yes. Only, I should read this letter in my rooms. It is the Minister of Justice.” 

“Oh, yes! Your father’s investigation, of course.” 

He rose, clutching the stack of letters to his chest. Hilda grabbed him to put the pack of tea biscuits in his hand. “Don’t forget this,” she said. “You know where I am, if you want to speak afterward.” She squeezed his hand in hers once before letting go. 

—

The investigation on Count Gloucester hadn’t produced any conclusive evidence regarding Claude’s accusations, until now. The Minister of Justice had written to say they had found a letter bearing the Gloucester seal, addressed to Duke Acheron a few weeks before the death of Godfrey von Riegan, expressing dangerous statements and discontent, close enough to treason, regarding the soon-to-be leader, which demanded a more inquisitive search of the Gloucester estate and required his father’s presence to facilitate this thankless business. 

His father would be escorted to the Gloucester estate the following day, in something so similar to house arrest Lorenz felt nauseous just thinking of it. 

“Father, this is absurd!” he said barging in his father’s study without waiting for a servant to announce him in. He had abandoned the castle after reading the letter without warning anybody he would not be attending audiences or meetings; Claude could endeavor to be useful by himself. The guards of the Gloucester manor had opened the doors to him without delay. Imagining his father desolate, his study a riot of papers and upturned desks, as if the search had taken place there and not the Gloucester Estate, had hastened Lorenz’s steps. But everything was in place. Not even his father seemed anything but composed, the sun falling through the clear windows on the mahogany desk where he sat amid total calmness. “I will make sure they realize their foolishness, as soon as tomorrow the Minister of Justice will have a letter from me waiting on his desk. I knew this investigation was a mistake, simply ridiculous! Claude and the Duke must have perpetrated something. I do not want you to worry, for—”

The sudden slam of a heavily ringed hand on the surface of the desk silenced him, the harshness of the sound rattling against the glass of the windows and Lorenz’s teeth as he clamped his lips together; his heart jolting in his chest from sheer unexpectedness, not of his father losing his temper but of the reason which could have caused him to do so. 

“You can do  _ nothing,”  _ he said. “Do you even think? Do you realize what an advantage Riegan would possess if they suspect you to be complicitous of my actions? That vagrant will lock you in your rooms with the permission of that incompetent fool we have for Minister of Justice and seize power within a day.” 

“I will ask to know what this evidence they are seeking is, then. Surely something has been misunderstood…” He trailed off. His eardrums, sensitive after the explosion of noise a moment before, rebelled against the new, if milder, sounds of his father opening drawers and slamming them shut until he found what he was looking for. Lorenz took a step toward the desk to receive the bundle of letters his father threw at him. 

“You want to see the letters they will never find?” He laughed. “Read to your heart’s content.” 

He recognized his father’s handwriting, not the one he used for letters, but the one with which he scribbled on his journals; not his elegant cursive that alerted those reading of the delicacy of his education, of the care every noble must put into writing every word. Yet calligraphy wasn’t what hitched Lorenz’s breath in his throat, what moved him to blindly seek the chair opposite his father and drop in it. 

“This is—” He uncovered his mouth and cleared his throat; the papers shook in his hand as he placed them on the table. “This is the proof about which the Minister wrote. This is what they are seeking. You were going to overthrow Godfrey? Not once in the history of the Alliance has anyone staged a coup, Father.” 

“And you see where that led us? Riegan accumulated all the power, the glory. Are they kings, to be allowed to step over the rest?” His voice had started to rise, his cheeks to suffuse with heat. 

“We  _ vote. _ ” His voice faltered on the last word. "The Roundtable voted for Godfrey—”

“I didn’t. A pack of lapdogs voted for Riegan, because they cannot think for themselves. They were born to be led. But not us, not the family of Gloucester. My father told me he failed to raise the House of Gloucester to its proper place, and I swore I would do it for him. Why did you think I hired all the best tutors for you? You never lacked for anything. I even wasted all that money letting you go to that useless School of Sorcery in Faerghus!”

“I…”

Lorenz had begged to go there after learning his first spell. He had written a five-page letter to his father explaining the many spells he had wanted to learn, the way he had felt when he had finally managed to lit a candle with his finger; expatiating upon all the mages that had attended the school and become famous researchers, contributing to ineffable knowledge only half of which he could understand with his current expertise. And after putting on his best suit—one his mother had ordered for him, a tiny thing for his ten-year-old scrawny body—he had knocked on his father’s door and waited wringing his hands as his father had glanced through the pages. 

“Did you think that I would let all that education, all the effort I put into you go to waste?” His father continued speaking. Then, in a milder tone, “Look at me, Lorenz.”

His gaze had drifted away to the carpet covering the floor, a conglomerate of colors and textures knitted with the durability only Brigid artisans managed. His mother had chosen that carpet. But that had been back when she still visited the manor in Derdriu. 

“Yes, Father?” 

“You are my heir,” he said, leaning in. His elbows supported his weight as he cradled Lorenz’s head between his hands, his rings biting into his skin with unavoidable heaviness, not a whisper of warmth in the curled metal. “You must understand that House Gloucester deserves to lead. I only wanted what was best for you, and I don’t regret taking action to guarantee you got it.” 

Claude seemed so far away now, yet what he had said in their wedding night, almost a month ago now, rang in his head; his voice as clear, as unwelcome, as in the council room arguing with Lorenz just the day before. 

“But you never took action,” he said slowly. “Godfrey was killed by a beast before you could revolt as you planned in the letters.” His voice to his ears a curled, faint, questioning entanglement. 

Face to face as he was with his father, there was no room for hiding, and something unpleasant passed over the Count’s features before he leaned back, his hands falling from Lorenz’s face. 

“Yes. It pains me that I didn’t do anything sooner. My inaction is what led you to the undesirable position you're in now, attached to that rotten knave. Who knows, if I had acted sooner, maybe Godfrey would still be alive. You read the letters, you know I never planned to hurt him in any way if he cooperated, only have him sign his abdication and recognize House Gloucester as the rightful leader. I had the support I needed." 

“Why did he come to our house that day? And merely days before he was appointed?" Lorenz asked. "The beast attacked him as he left our territory…" 

Count Gloucester clicked his tongue, shaking his head.  "You were always such a sensitive boy. The only thing for which I thanked the Goddess that wretched day was that you were here in Derdriu when the accident happened, for you would have blamed yourself." His lips curled to show his pale gums as he gathered Lorenz's hands in both of his. "But you cannot ask the Goddess for explanations. Godfrey wanted to take a look into our art collection—you know those Varley paintings your mother loves so much, he wanted one of those, a rendition of Derdriu as if seen from a pegasus, to decorate the audience room when he was instaurated as leader.

“It was only bad fortune that led him to cross paths with that beast.”

Without waiting for any more questions, he pushed his armchair away from the desk and stood, moving in two brisk steps to listen to the message of an unfamiliar servant waiting by the door. Lorenz hadn't even heard him come in.

"You see then that to some it may seem that I deserve this senseless arrest and investigation," his father said, after dismissing the servant. He kept the door open and Lorenz stood, following his wishes. "But I didn't commit a crime, Son. The Goddess gave us freedom of speech. The letter they found was only my, I admit reckless displeasure in written form. I showed the rest to you to appease your fears and tell you they won’t find any more evidence, or else you will start inconveniencing me with weekly letters that will only serve to bring further suspicion to us. I am sure that Riegan impostor will try to poison your mind against me, and I wanted to show you the truth, Son: As you saw I am only guilty of hoping for change, I never acted against our previous ruler.” 

Only because he died first, Lorenz did not say, and watched as his father let the bundle of letters he had picked up from the desk fall into the flames of the hearth. Lorenz remained stuck in place as the fire devoured evidence that could destroy not only his father but his entire House, and his hands clenched into fists by his sides at once useless and impotent to preserve the truth. 

“You know the Ministry likes to poke at things, but we will let this pass and they'll soon see there's nothing more to this situation than an old Count complaining to a friend. Our estate flanks Adrestia, the Ministry won't risk our borders by taking any drastic measures. I will rest at home knowing you're putting the Riegan bastard in his place." 

The bitter smell of burnt ink and parchment accompanied him outside, curling in his nostrils, dizzying his mind with things that could not be, but were. And in the midst of it he complicit of it all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much for your support and your comments!! (I know I'm slow to respond, but they mean a lot to me and always bring a smile to my face, so, truly, thank you!!)  
> This chapter was originally over 10k (lol) and I had to split it in half, so next chapter will also be from Lorenz's pov but Claude's will return later, don't worry :)  
> Claude was terribly scarce in this chapter i know, but he will def appear in the next one!  
> Thanks for reading ^^


	4. IV

Lorenz rode. 

His favorite mare, a palomino Sreng Warmblood he had brought from Gloucester Estate had yet to get accustomed to the capital with its narrow coiling streets and busy crowded squares. She had been antsy and restless, pent up in the stables for longer than Lorenz would have ever allowed had his new responsibilities not absorbed every second of his time. 

So he owed Cashmere a gust of fresh air; he owed her the sweeping plains surrounding Derdriu, the sound of the river instead of the clatter of the city. 

They left behind the city walls at a controlled pace, reins clenched tight in Lorenz’s fist until they passed the gates bustling with people coming and going; until they abandoned the populated road full of merchants bringing their wares into the city or leaving after the morning market closed with the bells announcing noon, trotting for the less-traveled trail that led to the soft hills to the south where the sun reflected on the greens and browns and yellows of the grass and bushes. 

Snow was late this year, except on the highest peaks of the Almyran mountain range. 

He didn’t bother with any etiquette or restraint: Cashmere twitched beneath him as soon as she spotted the open grounds extending in front of her and then it simply took the action of loosening his fingers over the reins, the barest touch of spurs against her flanks and she—inhaling huffing cocking her head—grew free, a mad comet skipping over the ground so fast the wind in Lorenz’s ears erased even that noise of her hooves on the packed earth of winter. His only precaution to tie his hair back with a piece of ribbon he had found around his wrist, his eyes remained uncovered for the view, but his hands, ungloved, and his neck, bare, froze beneath the whipping wind and allowed it to snake its way underneath his clothes, unsuitable for a hard ride. 

Cashmere set her own pace, only corrected by Lorenz’s thighs or a pull of his hand on the reins when she strayed too far from the fainter and fainter trail. He may have wanted thoughtlessness but even had his body not reacted on its own for the wellbeing of his horse, Lorenz would never allow any animal he rode to suffer for any wistful distractions his mind required. He had postponed and postponed the break he sorely needed—until now. He had allowed to unsettle him not Godfrey’s death and what that possibly entailed for his future, not the hectic preparations of the detested wedding, not the man he would never trust but was forced to marry; instead he had breathed and accepted it  _ for the good of the Alliance.  _

A mantra, since perhaps before birth; when the beginnings of life had blossomed inside his mother’s belly had his father already begun his whispers of this future his life mission? He barely remembered his parents living together, but knew they must have tolerated each other for some time at least. 

Was the good of the Alliance burning letters? Conspiring to overthrow a leader chosen, a leader elected? 

Even worse: Claude’s accusations resounding inside his head. Even worse: his own accusations thrown at Claude. How sure he had been he was lying, fabricating evidence against his father to weaken his position. What would he say if Lorenz told him about the burnt letters? He desperately wished for someone in which to confide, pushing away the words of the priest during the wedding ceremony  _ Accept in holy matrimony this your husband? this your partner, confidant? Swear you to be loyal and truthful— _

He could write to his mother but nothing assured him his letter wouldn’t be intercepted and thus his father’s secrets revealed. And the city agreed so badly with her illness he couldn’t ask her to come, not when she hadn’t even been able to make it to the wedding. 

Cashmere whinnied and turned her neck fretfully pulling on the reins, blowing air through her nostrils. Lorenz realized he was trembling—chest rising and falling after the hard ride and skin shivering, sweat cooling over his body. She didn’t calm until he tugged on the reins slightly, making his presence known, and leaned down to pat her neck. 

“It is alright,” he said, speaking not only to her. Only one of them relaxed. 

—

Night had already fallen by the time he returned to the castle. 

He irremediably woke the stable boy dozing off in the hay-stock, who shot to his feet as he recognized Lorenz, bowing and mumbling a lot of ‘Your Graces’ through the haze of sleep. Lorenz gave him a coin after the both of them had led Cashmere to her stall and unsaddled and prepared her for the night, with plenty of water after the exhausting gallop.

Even at such an hour the castle of course never slept, and he encountered soldiers standing guard at the entrance, then the stairs and hallway that led to the First Tower. Save for the candles burning low on the walls and Lorenz’s steps resounding on the marble floors, no lights, no sounds, only shadows and guards bowing unobtrusive and unjudging of the hour their leader chose to come back to the castle or his appearance, a hurried ponytail and mud-spattered boots, open collar without the propriety of even a cravat. 

It was because of this that when he heard voices coming from the library—whose doors he had to pass on his way to the stairs leading up to the First Tower’s rooms—he hesitated to show himself. He halted before stepping into the sliver of light coming through the half-open door. Plenty of nobles had open access to the castle’s library and chose to visit it at their leisure for pleasure or research, and Lorenz wanted to see none of them. Whether duke or lesser noble their gaze would sweep up from Lorenz’s ruined boots with knowing pinched lips and eyes that had read by now of Count Gloucester’s name being smeared by a more thorough investigation. 

This pause turned out to be an unwise mistake.

“I got it, I got—whoops, maybe not.” 

There was one person Lorenz wanted to see even less than all the combined dukes of the Alliance. 

The door he should have crossed without a second thought opened and light split the dim hallway asunder: Lorenz standing still in the lesser gleam of the dying candles of the corridor, Claude bathed in the glare coming from the magic-lamps that glowed with almost painful brightness all hours of day and night inside the library without the danger of fire to harm the precious volumes. All those times Claude had either arrived late to morning audiences or shamelessly fallen into a deep slumber during the afternoon council sessions acquired bright meaning in Lorenz's head. No wonder he was lethargic if he spent his nights traipsing in and out of the library.

He was pushing the door with his back because his hands supported far too many books, one stacked on top of another all the way to his neck. As he turned around to step into the corridor the two beneath his chin precipitated from the ambitious mountain. Cyril behind him not only failed to grab them but kicked one across the floor: he too carried an unassailable amount of books that hindered his lower field of vision. 

“Were those the ones you need to put on gloves to pass the pages because they are so frail?” said Cyril as the door swung shut at their backs. His stoical tone had a lighter quality Lorenz had never heard before. 

“Who do you take me for?  _ You  _ are carrying those so that I can blame you if something happens to them,” Claude said, likewise in a low voice. 

Their eyes were lowered in search of the fleeing book Cyril had sent right into Lorenz’s boots, and in paralyzing surprise Lorenz remained there unmoving for a moment of infinite suspense as their gazes crept over the floor until they found the book, and himself. 

“Lorenz?” Claude said, forgetting to whisper as he had before. “What an unexpected surprise!” Despite the raised tone of his voice the arms supporting the books remained steady, the rest of his cargo safe; for the moment. 

Narrowing his eyes, “What are you doing here at such an hour?” Lorenz asked. He bent to pick up the book by his feet. 

“Oh, you know. I was having a slow night, so I decided to go pick up some light reading.” Claude closed the distance between them. Because Lorenz was expecting it, he noticed the surreptitious sweep of Claude’s eyes over him, but he didn’t comment on his appearance. “You can just...put that right back on there.” Lifting his loaded arms. 

But Lorenz took his time, allowed his eyes to wander unresisting to the title of the volume in his hands, one of the most modern acquisitions, it seemed, the leather binding dyed a shiny olive green with stoic black letters on the cover that read  _ Observations on Specialty Corn: The Struggle for Maize. _ No wonder it looked new. 

“Maize? Why are you reading about  _ maize _ ?” He searched the spines of the rest of the books, but the poor light of the corridor didn’t lend itself to peeking. 

“You can never know too much about maize,” he said, with the self-assurance he used to handle the most overbearing dukes at the council meetings on matters like taxes or troops or border disputes. 

“What—” The door slamming shut interrupted Lorenz. He looked to find Cyril leaning heavily against it. 

“A draft,” said Cyril, eyes intent on Claude. 

“Yes, we should hire someone to fix the library windows.” Claude turned to Lorenz. “Now why don’t we retire for the night? Tomorrow will be a long day for us both, the Brigidian Ambassador is coming—” Cyril coughed—“ _ and _ we have the morning packed with audiences. So, after you.” And he bowed his head, stepping out of Lorenz’s way, as if ransacking the library was a perfectly regular activity to do in the middle of the night. No rules forbid it, less so to one of the Alliance’s leaders, just like there were no laws against bringing an Almyran soldier into the castle as one’s retainer, or hiring mercenaries, or emptying a cup of wine on a husband, or disappearing from a tournament to come back with a neck stained with blood, or sending pastries with charming notes like a suitor—

And, “What in the Goddess’s name are those thuds against the door?”

Lorenz had had a very trying day, his mind still raced as if it remained riding his horse. He wanted to shake Claude by the shoulders to demand him to open up his mind, to reveal his secrets.  _ Who are you? _

But before he could decide on which thought to pull from his head a number of things happened at once. The door, which had remained silent for a few seconds started shaking with a rattling hum that traveled through the carpeted floor to Lorenz’s boots. Claude yelled something as he turned to Cyril, who was already stepping away from the door; his wide eyes were the last thing Lorenz noticed before the door exploded.

The force of it sent Cyril, most immediate victim, stumbling to the floor, his balance impeded by the heavy load in his arms. Claude who had lurched to help him forgetting his own occupied hands only managed to knock into him, sending books flying everywhere. One brushed against Lorenz’s shoulder as it vanished down the corridor. He stepped over the fallen two, putting himself between them and the smoke coming from the now open door. The quick wind spell he cast parted the smoke; as it rose to the vaulted ceiling and allowed the figure of the coughing perpetrator into view he readied a new one, more powerful, prepared for defense 

Then, “Lorenz?” Lysithea gasped, one hand frozen in front of her face, caught in the middle of waving away the smoke; the other still rippled with energy, raised chest-high, poised for the next spell. 

An assassin wouldn’t have been perhaps more welcome, but it would have made more sense. “Why are you exploding the library doors?!” His voice rose to a high pitch he caught too late. 

She lowered her hands, magic dissipating. “I… I thought it had gotten stuck.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. Then her eyes darted away to the two men on the floor. “Is everybody alright?” She asked, sounding more piqued than worried. 

Turning as well, Lorenz despaired to find the countless books splayed on the carpet, spines bent, covers misshapen, a couple of pages still fluttering in the air, and worse of all: Claude sitting against the wall, head hanging between his rolling shoulders with a hand failing to smother his misplaced mirth when Lorenz’s heart still seemed intent to beat out of his chest. 

“We’re fine, my lady.” Cyril was on his knees, doing his best to press his lips on the smile with which Claude had infected him. 

“I fail to see the humor in the situation,” Lysithea was saying as Claude cried, “You blew up the door!” and succumbed to renewed laughter, not bothering to conceal it anymore. 

Cyril’s shoulders too, had started to shake. “I’m sorry, my lady.” He pressed a hand against the choked laughter that left his lips. “It’s not funny.” Claude’s gasps contradicted him. 

Lysithea raised her arms upward, unamused until she met Lorenz’s eyes. The shock of the day, the constant stress that had become his life, his father, his suspicions, his responsibilities; they all left him the moment he couldn’t keep his lips from stretching. The fright quickly passed and the situation in hindsight ridiculous, he found himself possessed by the hilarity of it all as well, spurred on by Claude’s choked breaths. “Not you too,” Lysithea muttered when he gave in, but she bit her lip. A moment later Lorenz, sight blurry by tears, heard her echoing sputtering burst, mirror to his own. 

The guards that arrived amidst the clattering of armor found them as such, and waited prudently until Lorenz straightened and managed, “At ease. You may return to your posts. The situation is—under control here.” 

Claude stood as the soldiers left, wiping his eyes. Their gazes met while Lysithea and Cyril checked the damage done to the door; a spent smile clung to Claude’s lips, warming his face. For the first time, Lorenz looked at him and didn’t see a complete stranger; for the first time, he thought to see that recognition reflected in Claude’s eyes. 

But just as the waves return to shore, the heaviness lifted from his shoulders reappeared, and the moment passed. “What were you doing in there together?” Lorenz asked. His brow pulled into a frown. He turned to Lysithea, a more willing conversationalist when you asked questions, not prone to circle around them as others did. 

Like a book closing, her smile slowly faded. “We weren’t together. We just ran into each other.” She lifted her chin. “What are you insinuating?” 

“I would not dare to make any accusations,” Lorenz said, his voice cold to his own ears. A couple of what seemed at the time random encounters materialized in his mind: Lysithea about to climb the stairs leading to the First Tower where only the leaders had their residences, stopping short when she saw him descending. Both times she had said she had business to discuss with him, but Lorenz couldn’t remember now what it was about which she wanted to talk. 

He shook his head. This was Lysithea, she wouldn’t— Lorenz didn’t even know what his suspicions could be about. A lady caught in the middle of the night with a man—and his guard—in the deserted, isolated library would give the court a few weeks’ worth of rumors. Such rumors had no place in Lorenz’s mind, not with Lysithea involved; sensible Lysithea with a good head on her shoulders who scoffed at every romance novel Lorenz lent her and scorched over-confident suitors with a sharp tongue. If this were some other lady and not his friend, perhaps his suspicions wouldn’t feel like a mad man’s paranoia, after all, he had failed to find any...references for Claude’s previous affairs, but hearing his blandishments first-hand during every Roundtable gave him a very good idea of the kind of trail he must have left behind. 

And anyway, he could woo whomever he wished. It wasn’t rare in an arranged marriage to seek companionship elsewhere.

“Are you researching something at the moment?” asked Lorenz, aiming for a less inquiring tone. 

“As a matter of fact I am,” she said. “Warping spells.” 

“Oh? I would have thought you had read every single magic volume in the whole Alliance by now. I have some at home— At Gloucester’s Estate. I could send a courier for them, if you think they would help.”

“There’s no need. I—I think I found what I was looking for. Thank you, though.” Her eyes drifted away for only a second, then she took a step forward and added, in a lower voice, “Are you alright? I heard about your father.” 

He took a deep breath. It seemed so long ago, when less than a day had passed. The sounds of Claude and Cyril behind him talking among themselves, moving and piling books, floated in the air, climbed to the ceiling like the smoke, reached him with the comfort of familiar whispered voices in the middle of the night. “I appreciate your asking.” His hand moving to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear found skin alone. He redirected it to check the state of his ponytail. “I spent some time riding with Cashmere, as you can see.” He gestured to the state of his hair and clothes. “My head is much clearer now.” 

“I know we haven’t spent a lot of time together lately but…”

It brought a smile to his lips how she visibly searched for comforting words to offer. But he understood her intentions, so nodding he thanked her again, said, "I know," and turned to face the mess of books littered over the floors. Claude and Cyril had worked fast, two neat piles sat on the carpet, only a few books missing, among them those close to Lorenz and Lysithea.  _ Agricultural Meteorology, Dirt to Soil, Rates and Taxes of Farmers and Landowners,  _ and somehow to spice up the combination,  _ A Detailed Compendium of Poisonous Herbs Found in the Leicester Alliance;  _ those Lorenz picked up from the floor and returned to the stacks growing on the floor. 

“I refuse to ask,” he told Claude. 

He laughed, a short huff of breath, more subdued than his previous burst. “Thanks for the help,” he said, angelic, and stood, dusting off his trousers and offering Cyril a hand. 

“It doesn’t look that way, but did any of you suffer any injuries?” Lysithea asked as she approached. “Cyril?” She regarded the young guard first, her gaze focused on him, and Lorenz wondered how she knew his name, noticed with a frown how Cyril turned to her and his eyes knew where to meet hers at once. 

“We’re fine, Lady Lysithea.” He offered an earnest bow only slightly delayed. 

“Only our pride was wounded,” Claude said, pulling Lorenz away from his observations. He lifted his arm to show a tear in the cuff of his jacket. “And my wardrobe.”

“Not a complete waste of my talent, then,” said Lysithea, showing her teeth in a sharp smile. 

“This may prove an experience worth remembering, indeed,” Lorenz agreed, and smiled when Lysithea turned his way. 

From the corner of his eye he caught the shadow of a smile that passed over Claude’s face before he gave a solemn bow. “I’m glad my misfortunes brightened your otherwise dull night.” 

“I will take my leave then, if you do not require healing. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

She was already turning away when Claude called. “Will you allow my esteemed retainer to escort you to your rooms?” 

The offer only seemed to startle said esteemed retainer. He jerked upright, coming closer to the straightened posture taught to the infantry that he never managed to properly keep for long. His earnest, open features showed his wide eyes as he turned to Claude and then redirected his eyes to the floor. 

“Well?” Claude had kept his eyes on Lysithea. 

For the first time in a long time she looked unsure, hesitant, eyes darting to Cyril and back. “It is unnecessary if…” she trailed off. 

“Nonsense. The corridors are dark and your rooms on the other side of the castle. It would be—” He cleared his throat and molded his voice into a sugary pitch—“unbecoming of a lady to wander on her own at such an hour. I’m sure Lorenz agrees.” 

Lorenz was wondering who would help Claude carry books upstairs, but allowed a wordless nod, unsure whether to commend Claude for the generous offer—his first impulse, and, were this in front of him any other noble, the only conclusion his mind would reach—or suspect some senseless machination on his part. 

After a minute she ended up accepting, and Cyril followed her in silence down the corridor and around the corner until they were out of sight. Claude turned to him when the sound of Cyril’s heavy steps faded, raised his eyebrows, cocked his head, pointed his eyes to the pile of books and back up. 

“Where are your attendants?” Lorenz asked.

“Asleep, probably. I sent them away after I left the council room this afternoon.” He blinked, and blinked. 

And blinked. 

“Do you,” Lorenz said; sighed, “require assistance?” As loath as he was to help Claude, he couldn’t just ignore the situation and allow him to do any more damage to the defenseless books, especially now that sensible Cyril had left him unsupervised. A month ago he may have, but he had learned to live within this prison his marriage, to adapt. To see eye to eye. 

“Oh, my! So chivalrous of you to offer. I absolutely need you to carry one of these collections of page-turners. You can choose whichever you want.”

“If you came to the library during the day, your attendants could do their job.” But he bent all the same, ignoring Claude’s, “Lift with your legs,” as he did the same. 

He’d strived for so long to find the perfect wife to make House Gloucester proud, to reflect the sobriety and sophistication of his family and learn to navigate the court with him as they raised their status within the court. A few years ago he had realized one part that didn’t fit in that equation; late one night, in the secluded maze erected in the middle of the gardens that graced the Gloucester estate with the fragrance of hortensias and gladiolus and narcissus and roses, as the son of a family friend who had spent the summer with them knelt in front of him, his calloused hands—he had spent the spring at sea, traveling around Fódlan and learning how to commander his father’s ship—hot and revealing on Lorenz’s skin. 

Now, another piece didn’t quite fit, one nonetheless easier to work around, and if his husband was secretive and flippant and untrained to lead, he hadn’t lied and conspired against his house as he had thought. His father had brought the investigations on himself.

Though Claude had still, unwarrantedly, accused Count Gloucester of murder. During their wedding night. Incriminating letters did not justify a leap from coup to assassination, did they?

“So,” Claude didn’t sound breathless even as they climbed the stairs, arms full of heavy books. “Your horse’s name is Cashmere?” 

The winding staircase, dimly lit, still allowed the two of them to climb side by side, not until the next flight would it narrow considerably. Lorenz risked a glance in Claude’s direction, the steps under his feet almost memorized after more than a month living in the First Tower. “Shamelessly eavesdropping, were you?” he said. 

“Come on, you were a step away. And in my defense I could have easily deduced that you had spent the better part of the day on a horse.” The low candles burning on the wall glinted in Claude’s eyes as he risked a glance of his own, eyes lingering on Lorenz’s hair and neck. He was grateful then for the load he carried that prevented him from fidgeting with his disheveled appearance, although after witnessing Lysithea break down a door and Claude send books flying as he toppled to the floor his self-consciousness had considerably diminished. It had been a very long day. 

“And your inexhaustible curiosity would not be allayed until you knew her name?” asked Lorenz. 

Claude turned his head to the steps ahead, a smile flashing on his profile before Lorenz did the same. He said, “A truth for a truth. Not everybody knows the titles of my bedside companions for the next fortnight.” 

An unbecoming snort left his mouth, only because they were alone. “An unfulfilling knowledge, I assure you. Though I will store it for future reference.”

To Lorenz’s right the walls gave way to the first floor, deserted except for the drowsy guard that lurched into position when they came into view—their quiet voices private to their ears even in this place that never fully slept. Behind the soldier a heavy curtain of darkness closed around the corridor beyond. Another flight of stairs until their rooms. Lorenz felt a bit lightheaded, his arms straining slightly. It bothered him, especially next to Claude who didn’t seem to notice the weight of the books, until he remembered he had skipped lunch—and dinner. 

“It’s a cute name,” Claude said as they left behind the guard.

Lorenz remained silent for a moment, putting one boot in front of the other, until, “Is that it?” 

“I’m afraid I haven’t been properly introduced and can’t say anything more about your, I'm sure, truly majestic horse.”

Here they stopped, impossible to continue walking next to each other as the walls leaned closer together, merely an arm’s length away. They stood opposite each other; in stillness, clarity. Lorenz took a deep breath. “I do not appreciate your pretended obtuseness regarding this matter,” he said. 

“You don’t appreciate my pretended obtuseness  _ at all _ ,” Claude chuckled. His brows worked in lieu of his hands, unmoving as they supported the books; here they rose, placating. “But we’re climbing stairs. I didn’t want to infuriate you.” And cocking his head, “After you.” 

Lorenz resumed the ascent, impatient to finally put the books down and stretch the sore muscles of his arms. He waited to speak until he was sure his voice would not sound as strained as he felt. “Thank you. I do believe your doubts regarding my equanimity to be unfounded.” He didn’t appreciate having to continue the conversation without the reference of Claude’s expressions—regardless that his face showed only the careful countenance which he desired. 

“Perhaps,” Claude said, adding before Lorenz could question that uninformative remark, “But you clearly told me not to talk to you about your father.” 

“So you circle around the matter waiting for me to bring it up?”

“Is that what’s happening right now? Color me dumbfounded.” 

Had there been any breath left in his lungs Lorenz would have expelled it in a long, tortured sigh. He settled for a short, sharp one. “Fine. Let’s continue in silence, then.” 

Not half a minute had passed when Claude spoke. “You haven’t asked me about Cyril,” he said. “I know you’ve been looking into his past.”

Even if he had tried to prioritize discretion, he had known, deep down, Claude would find out sooner or later. But after the initial reticence to admit to doing just what Claude accused him of, calm acceptance settled over him. He wouldn’t feel upset for investigating his husband with no past and, by association, his men: their marriage was one where the opposite of trust had joined them; the opposite of trust sustained them still. 

“There is nothing to ask. I know how to read a report, the facts are clear,” said Lorenz. 

“You had a lot to say when I hired those mercenaries, I thought you’d summon the Roundtable when you realized I had brought a former Almyran prisoner here.” Something in his voice made Lorenz want to turn around to search his face.

Because he didn’t want to roll down the stairs he settled for saying, “No laws forbid it. I would be opposed to bringing Nader the Undefeated to Derdriu, but I doubt a single soldier who left Almyra as a child would lead an assault against our nation.” A war orphan, Cyril had served the Almyran army until House Goneril captured him and made him their servant. After that, Gloucester spies failed to find anything else about his whereabouts, except that he had left House Goneril some time later. Claude’s mysterious father may have seen his potential and hired him, it appeared, although that meant Claude’s family would have had to visit the Goneril estate at some point. Lorenz’s current investigations ran along those lines at the moment. “He seems a responsible retainer,” he added. 

“Yeah, he is,” Claude said, pensive. 

He wanted to comment on the familiarity between the soldier and Lysithea, but by then he had climbed the last step of the stairs and the decorative commode against the wall of the landing called to him with its irresistible horizontal surface where he hurried to put the load he carried, sighing with relief. 

Behind him, Claude didn’t dally, groaning as he too found respite from his burden. “And people say reading only strengthens the mind,” Claude said, breathless now as he allowed his muscles to relax, bending to rest his elbows on the commode. When he lowered his head to hang low between his shoulders the collar of his jacket revealed a sliver of warm skin, the tips of his hair brushing against it.

Lorenz jerked his gaze away, rolling his neck and then his shoulders thoroughly, first one, then the other; straightened his spine, knowing to fear the ache that would settle over his muscles tomorrow unless he stretched. 

“This is the reason you have attendants,” Lorenz said. 

“And deprive you of this immense entertainment?” Claude’s voice sounded muffled, his head still buried between his shoulders. 

Lorenz was moving his wrists in slow circles to make them functional again, and in silence, when Claude turned his head to look at him from the corner of his eye, arched an eyebrow to show what he thought of the immense entertainment. 

He let out an exhausted breath of laughter. “Fine, fine. I will ask my attendants in the future.” Straightening, he added, “Thank you for the help, though.”

“You are very welcome.” He bowed his head, opened his mouth around a goodnight, but—

“You didn’t attend the audiences we had today, nor the council meeting.” 

It merely took Claude a step, and now they were face to face. Convenient—for Claude, of course. 

“I thought you had decided not to ask,” Lorenz said. His rooms and thus refuge from the exhausting day were so close, yet Claude’s gaze pinned him in place. 

“I’m not,” said Claude. Not the pause that followed but Claude’s eyes drifting away from Lorenz’s for a moment gave him respite. Then, “But are you alright?” 

A hundred acerbic comments came ready to his tongue. He was the reason his father had found himself under investigation in the first place, who was he to ask? What did he care? And voice he would have given to these thoughts a mere week ago, but now they amassed on his tongue, refusing to fall from his lips. 

“I know I’m the last person you want to talk to about this, but…” It seemed for the first time he spoke not as if reading from a script; the unrehearsed words so simple and spoken in earnest created such an unaccustomed atmosphere around them Lorenz had to stop himself from gaping like a fish. 

And when the pause had lengthened enough to overcome the initial surprise, something uncomfortable pushed from inside his chest. He hurried to answer, “Yes, I’m fine. The inspection will prove it was only that letter that blemished my father’s reputation.” He had spoken without thinking, for a moment forgetting this was indeed the truth but only because his father had burnt further evidence. He remembered with a wave of nausea. 

A line appeared between Claude’s eyebrows. “Are—”

“I’m merely tired.” He spoke past the dryness in his mouth. “I made some unwise decisions today, such as riding without proper attire or carrying too many books up two flights of winding stairs. I appreciate your concern, but I just need rest.”

Claude had pressed his lips together in a thoughtful line. He unstitched them to say, “Okay,” slowly. “I can handle the books from here. You should go to sleep, then.” 

After exchanging goodnights, Lorenz turned and didn’t look back until he was inside his chambers. His manservant immediately stepped up to address him, but Lorenz dismissed him with the first words that came to his lips and locked himself in his bedroom, resting the palms of his hands on the carved wood of the doors. He still jumped, ready to defend his father’s innocence at the least provocation, like that was one of the subjects for which he’d been trained during childhood. What was worse, he couldn’t keep the truth from his face. 

But he must. 

His father had taught him everything he knew about duty and nobility. He had led House Gloucester for years and years, witness to House Riegan’s durability and failures. Lorenz couldn’t fault his father for wanting change, if that is what he thought best for the Alliance… Except he had done more than wanting. 

But no, fate at once tragic and saving had prevented Count Gloucester’s actions, hadn’t it? And as condemning as the letters which only Lorenz knew existed were, surely the Ministry would already punish his father enough for the one letter that had been found.  And even if his father wasn't the man he had thought, he still wasn't a murderer as Claude had insinuated. He may have made mistakes, but the same blood ran through their veins. 

His head felt like it would explode any moment. 

Rubbing his temple with a hand and untangling the piece of string from his hair with the other he let his hair fall down his shoulders. He had to undress yet, wash up, brush his hair. He allowed a glance at the enticing bed, knowing it to be waiting for him with sheets warm and soft. But of course there on top of the immaculate covers sat the bag of tea biscuits he had left there that morning and which he had forgotten to thank Claude for after the eventful happenings of the day. 

Now he was inside his rooms as well. 

He had in the past let roses wither, misplaced jewelry and gave chocolates to Lysithea, but the sight of the simple bag of biscuits lifted something heavy deep inside him, replaced the burning parchment in a familiar hearth with the accomplishments—few, but sensible, efficient—he had managed since becoming ruler, one of them the beginnings of understanding his husband. At least, his decimated stomach had something to look forward before the exhaustion caught up with his body. Lorenz turned to the vanity to prepare himself for the few hours of blissful unconsciousness that lay ahead of him, hoping to fall into dreamless sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VERY EMBARRASSED about the name of the horse, but I used that while drafting just for fun and then it stuck... He calls her Cashie sometimes  
> Thank you so much for reading and for your support!! Writing this wouldn't be half as fun without you <3


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: in chapters 5 and 6 I wrote "Arlathan" instead of "Agarthan" which is the correct term. Sorry for the mistake, it's all fixed now!! also, not sure how it works, but if ao3 notifies those who have subscribed for editing the chapters i really apologize for the spam! Won't happen again ^^

“I’m not hiding it from him any longer,” Lysithea said during their next midnight library meeting. Not their brightest idea, Claude admitted, especially after Lorenz had already caught them once, but meeting in his rooms was, according to Lysithea, even worse, since she had run into Lorenz at least twice trying to get to the second floor of the First Tower. The man seemed to be everywhere. “I waited as you asked,” she kept going, “until the Ministry of Justice wrote back regarding his father’s...situation, but what are we waiting for now?” 

Whoever was in charge of arranging the thousands of volumes filling the shelves was going to curse her entire family: she had decided to busy herself by restacking the shelves as they spoke, and now was taking the books Cyril handed to her and putting them in the place she had deduced corresponded to them. Cyril looked mildly pained, aware of the mess he was helping create. It subsided every time she asked him—in all his glorious height—to reach a higher shelf. 

“I have looked into every useless volume in this library and there’s nothing to restrict the tracking spell. So even if it’s working, which we can’t prove because neither of you can warp and hence I can’t  _ practice _ ”—the sound the book made as she threw it with unnecessary force into the shelf almost made Claude wince in sympathy—“we still cannot know where in Derdriu the Agarthan that tried to poison Lorenz ran off to.”

Claude twirled a pen between his fingers, sinking in the comfort of the armchair after another day packed with audiences and meetings. He was starting to feel cooped up like a chicken. A chicken people came to the audience chamber to gawk at and discuss, as if he’d let them see any of the golden eggs. 

Stretching his back, he said, “How easy our task would have been if, instead of the heavily populated capital, he had just decided to warp to a neatly delimited territory…” 

“Yes, exactly!”

“...like Gloucester Estate,” Claude finished. 

“Ugh!” Lysithea dropped the book on the closest chair—Cyril did wince this time; Claude saw the book was one of the old, frail volumes he cared so much about—and surrounded the table to approach Claude. “I told you I wouldn’t listen to your baseless speculations.” She towered over him as he reclined, flattening his back against the chair. “I don’t care about the rumors of Count Gloucester’s treason, poisoning his own son is completely different and—and who would poison his family to throw suspicion on someone? As much as they hated him? The Count loves Lorenz.”

“You said so yourself, calendum isn’t deadly.” Lysithea rolled her eyes, and twisted around to rejoin Cyril on the other side of the table. Claude straightened. Leaning on the table he said, “It’s either Edmund or Gloucester. Or yourself.”

And off she went again, picking book after book. “Just because we voted against you? You know there are dozens of minor nobles without a place at the Roundtable who want you out of the way as much as anyone, right?” 

“You could’ve broken it to me with gentler words, but yes I admit the thought crossed my mind. As did the fact that none of them have the power to hire and hide a criminal organization persecuted internationally.” 

“The Agarthans are thought to be gone. What would it take to protect a couple of them?”

“You’re asking what it would take to protect two whole Agarthans from Adrestia’s Minister of the Imperial Household? Do you know who that man is?” He affected a shiver. 

“Yes.” Thoughtful. It was the first time Claude had swayed her in the slightest. “Yes,” she said again. 

“But fine, let’s ignore my suspicions for the time being. What would you tell Lorenz? Somebody, either highly incompetent or only slightly evil, tried to poison you more than a month ago? They might or mightn’t try again.” 

“Yes, that. What? We're clearly not going to make any progress and he _has_ to know. What if it happens again?" 

“I have people looking out for him—”

“You mean mercenaries.” She wrinkled her nose. 

He was aware of the feeble loyalty of mercenaries, as he was of the poor allegiance every soldier serving the new combined House of Gloucester-Riegan felt towards him. He couldn’t even trust his grandfather’s troops, but he had money. “Who else?” he said, showing her the palms of his empty hands. 

But she wasn’t looking. “Lorenz isn’t dumb. The only reason he didn’t realize anything the other day was that he had received that letter about his father and he had too much in his mind—”

“And because you blew up the door.” 

Lysithea clicked her tongue, and, now out of books and distractions, turned to face him. She put her hands on her hips as she said, “We can’t continue meeting like this, especially when there’s nothing to discuss. I have to leave the capital after New Year’s Eve.” Here her string of words stuttered. Her neck stiffened as she kept her eyes firmly on Claude. She compensated the slight pause with more bluntness than before: “Lorenz is almost as good with Reason magic as I am, you need his help because you’re useless on your own.” 

Claude sighed, running a hand through his hair. It didn’t help that she was right. His mercenaries found nothing, his investigation met a dead end. He had no contacts on the Empire—and knew Lorenz did. Still, things would flow much more smoothly if he had some evidence to support him when he told Lorenz. “If you’re so sure you should tell him why are you asking for my permission?” 

A soft pink colored her cheeks. “I’m not  asking  for permission. It’s only that you would be the one taking the risk if…”

“If Lorenz doesn’t trust me. You know he doesn’t trust me. Whoever hired the Agarthans not only suspected that, but counted on it. The minor nobles don’t know that Lorenz hates me—”

“He doesn’t  _ hate _ you. It's not like he wants you dead. And he would trust you if you were honest.”

Ah, yes. He would have taken trust under consideration if he had known his grandfather had organized a marriage. As things were, it was proving a little difficult to create a picture-perfect family that resided within the Alliance and could corroborate to whatever Lorenz’s spies asked. He had no problem lying, but every time he spoke he could sense Lorenz taking mental notes of his words. 

“And why do you need to leave after the new year?” Claude asked. From the corner of his eye he caught Cyril drawing short in his slow, distracted inspection of the shelves which was only fooling one person in the room. He resumed as silence stretched, Lysithea bringing her hands together in front her and then smoothing them over her skirts. 

Finally, she sat in the chair opposite Claude. “I need to take care of things back home. I’ve already been away for too long.” 

Her gaze drifted away, maybe unconsciously following the only movement in the library, maybe not. When Cyril turned to the next shelf she jerked her eyes away, only to meet Claude’s. He raised his eyebrows, but endeavored to erase any other expression from his face, deciding not to comment on that particular subject. He spoke before her glare summoned the literal void under his chair. “But you’re still only the heir, what about your parents?”

She shook her head. “Ever since I became of age my parents leave the business of our House to me. I asked them to do so. They’re old and deserve to rest.” 

Her voice and set jaw allowed for no arguments, but what was Claude if not persistently unwise? “And you?” 

“I’m capable and can take care of things.” 

Not scarce information had come up when he had started his research into House Ordelia, in fact a whole night’s worth of official documents and letters and statements. Claude had read up on it and the next day moved on to start with House Edmund. Only when he put a face to the name, and recognized the white hair, did he realize with a pang shooting through him just how little regard he had given to the matter, not of immediate importance to him then. Just like his grandfather, after all, who had turned a blind eye on the destruction and experiments and the murders even as they happened in front of him. It had taken years and the Adrestian Empress—not even the ruler of Lysithea’s own nation—to put things right and serve justice to the culprits. Looking into her determined eyes he resisted the futile urge to offer comfort, or apologize. 

“I know I’m, and I quote, ‘useless’, but write if you need anything.” 

Even those meager words astonished her, as much as she tried to keep emotions out of her face. She lifted her chin. “I’m not leaving yet, you know.” 

“Saints, you’re right. New Year can’t come fast enough.” 

She made a haughty sound deep in her throat, but her lips twitched. “Who will you torment with your skepticism then?” 

—

Sitting on the foot of the bed, Claude asked, “Did you give it to her?” in what was becoming inexorable routine, when Cyril entered his bedroom less than an hour later after escorting Lysithea to her rooms.

Cyril, unsurprisingly, rolled his eyes. “No,” he said after sweeping the room with his gaze, either for assassins or Claude’s scurry attendants. Ahead of him, Claude had already sent them away after allowing one of them to undress him. If he didn’t make them work every once in a while, as much as they detested him, they got antsy, and undressing was far easier than the opposite, when suddenly the four of them became colorblind and brought Claude outfits that would have given Lorenz indigestion, or forgot how to tie buttons in time for the morning audiences. 

“Were your ears working? She’s leaving soon, what are you waiting for? At this rate, you’ll give her the handkerchief and she will have forgotten why you have it in the first place.” 

This was the part where Cyril talked about impropriety and dragged a hand down his face and disheveled his hair; and Claude talked him once again into returning Lysithea’s handkerchief—the one Cyril had made sure was washed until not a drop of his blood remained and pressed to flawlessness. How sad, Claude thought, that this was the bright spot of his day. 

But tonight Cyril made sure the door was firmly shut behind him, then the windows. “She knows I served the Almyran army,” he said, low, voice like gravel, carrying tension right into Claude’s shoulders. 

It took a conscious effort to loosen his muscles and speak. “Did Lorenz tell her?” 

It had been a possibility he had bore in mind ever since learning of Lorenz’s discovery, not only that he told Lysithea, but the necessary people to make every tongue at court start wagging. He had readied the required conversation for the moment he had to tell Cyril to go back home. Claude knew what it was like to navigate a court that knew you didn’t belong, and that experience would stay his, unreplicated. 

But, “What? No,” Cyril said. “Wait, Lord Gloucester  _ knows?” _

Claude exhaled, but it was too soon to relax. “That doesn’t matter. How did she find out then?”

Here Cyril checked the window he had just made sure was closed a moment before. He rubbed the side of his face before realizing he was fidgeting and crossed his arms. “I mean she asked me about Almyra.” 

The useless relief he felt vanished as soon as he remembered this was Cyril. Claude closed his eyes, asked, “And you said, ‘Lovely this time of year,’ and moved on?” 

“And then she asked about how I came to Fódlan and learned the language…” 

“Just rip off the bandage, come on” 

“I—I said— I told her the truth. It’s just that she’s been helping us so much, and we know everything that happened to her family, so it felt wrong to hide it from her, and I didn’t realize how it could compromise you until I had said it and then… I had already told her. That House Goneril captured the battalion I served, and I became their servant for a while.” 

“Of course you did.” Claude grimaced. They had been over this. This—urge to tell the truth… Cyril’s panache for honesty. Opening his eyes he found Cyril a step away from him, wringing his hands; he looked dangerously close to throwing himself to his knees on the floor. “It’s fine!” he shot to his feet and put a hand out to prevent any dramatics, startling Cyril out of his silent flagellation. “Lorenz knows too, it’s alright.” 

He grabbed Cyril by the shoulders. “We’ll talk about your faultless honesty some other time.” He patted his back, trying to return him to the present. “But you didn’t reveal any unfathomable secrets.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, still looking like he’d played tag with a wyvern. Claude led him to sit on his bed and dropped next to him on the firm mattress. 

“Yes. I thought this could happen, but because Lorenz told people. He seems to be saving that one for another time, though.” As much as he valued Cyril, his presence by his side and his company, when the time to let him go arrived it wouldn’t catch him unprepared. An Almyran at court was rare enough but permitted since the border disputes caused small villages to change nationalities every once in a while, and in fact Cyril did come from an Almyran village now in the hands of the Alliance much to its people’s discontent. A former prisoner who had served the Almyran army was a whole different matter. Even if it looked like he had remained at Fódlan after House Goneril captured him, instead of returning to Almyra. “So… What did she say?” 

“Nothing. Well, she asked if I could help her practice her Almyran.” 

“What?” It burst out of him, a high-strangled sound right from his throat. 

Cyril grimaced, his face a blend of coiled hope and confusion. “She said her tutors taught her the alphabet but that she wants to develop her writing and conversational skills further.” 

It appeared Lysithea continued proving herself as a never-ending source of surprises. A fleeting ponderment: how Lorenz would react if he knew he was from Almyra; undeterred he pushed the thought into a small corner of his mind to never consider again. That clearly could not happen, was of abysmal importance to circumvent. 

“What is she, planning a holiday?” Claude breathed out a laugh. Cyril even managed a tremulous smile. “Or she just wants to spend time with you.” He elbowed Cyril in the ribs. 

But he wouldn’t put his duties far behind enough to even consider Claude’s suggestion. As honest as he was persistent, he said, “How is this alright? Not Lysithea, but Lord Gloucester?” A deep line between his eyebrows. “If he knows where I come from, where I was before I came to serve you, then you—”

“No.” Claude shook his head, meant it when he said, “My tracks are far better covered. Even if he could begin to suspect, there’s no proof. Not of where I come from, let alone  _ whom  _ I come from. It was only a matter of time before he found out about you though, and he probably thinks that you moved on to serve a lesser family, neighbor to Goneril. I did think it would take him longer than this, I’ll give him that.”

Cyril narrowed his eyes. “Did you bring me here just to see how efficient their spies are?” 

Either pride or chagrin or a combination of both wormed their way into Claude’s voice when, discovered, he answered, “How could you insinuate such a thing?” with a hand pressed against his chest. “And after you practically begged to come with me!” In Claude’s defense, he did have some trouble resisting Cyril, and he had merely taken advantage of the loose ends of his past. 

“I did not beg,” Cyril grumbled, but allowed a smile, steadier than before, to curl his lips. 

Claude breathed in and out with him. He could practically feel the tension leaving Cyril's body, seeping out of him and loosening his wounded muscles. Claude had bet him some time ago that he would get gray hairs before he did despite his younger years. 

He let the moment and the worry settle some before saying, "So, now that you practically sold out your Crown Prince for a woman, will you, please, give her the handkerchief?" 

Claude leaned his weight on Cyril's side, arm over his shoulders that hunched as he buried his head in his hands with a shaky sigh. “No,” said Cyril and moved to cause Claude to flop on the bed. 

—

Pegasus Moon began with a warm day, unpacked of meetings except for the Morfis ambassador that possibly had already arrived but could wait for Claude to finish his breakfast in bed. 

He had woken with the sun, and decided to catch up with his ever-growing pile of letters before getting up from bed, enjoying the heavy weight of the blankets and the clear light slanting through the windows as he drank his coffee. Though he wouldn’t categorize his mail as fulfilling—few of the letters regarded personal matters—that morning two of them shone for their rareness. The first, a note he would have had called plain until he opened it and the writing assaulted his eyes with intricate, delicate filigrees of ink looping needlessly over the scented paper. The content, at least, was clear:  _ Thank you for the tea biscuits.  _ After a week, he had mostly forgotten about his improvised gift, and expected no reply at all. Still, this seemed like a step in the right direction. Smiling, he set the piece of paper aside, waving his hand in the air to disperse the fragrant scent away from his face. 

The second letter—no, invitation—written in simple cursive, elegant but pleasantly decipherable despite the unfamiliarity, he couldn’t finish because some sort of commotion reached his ears through the closed door of the bedroom. He had only time to put his breakfast tray aside, coffee sloshing over the brim of the cup, and sit up before the door slammed open. 

“Your Grace—” That was all his servant Joffrey managed to say because— 

“ _ Sleeping powders?”  _ A penetrating voice, wholly unfamiliar for a second, interrupted him. And then the owner pushed past the manservant in all his morning splendor, his tailcoat flapping behind him and not a hair out of place. Cyril and Leonie, supposedly on guard at Claude’s doors, fell behind the intruder, as bemused as purposeless as they watched Lorenz walk to the foot of Claude’s bed. “Sleeping powders,” he repeated, not a question; his eyes two narrow slits of vexation, his shoulders drawn up with affront. 

In all its enormity, with the walls so far apart the pompous four-poster bed didn’t even intrude in it, the chamber was starting to become crowded. “Thank you, Joffrey, that will be all. Cyril, Leonie, return to your post. My husband requires a private word, it appears.” He spoke without looking away from Lorenz. 

When the door closed behind them all, the room slowly muted around Claude, his focus narrowed to the imposing figure of Lorenz, intruding in the middle of his quarters. The strewn books by the side of his bed, his clothes from the night before laying atop a chair and the desked crowned with open letters made a contrasting background to the prim and proper noble dressed to the nines right after dawn standing stretched to his full height. 

Claude failed to offer a chair and broke the silence. “Judith?” 

“No. This time you are answering the questions without any sidestepping or deflecting or impudent comments. Is the reason you have been avoiding meals that there is—” Lorenz clenched his jaw—“ _ nelium _ in your food?” 

Claude’s hands remained loosen on top of the emerald bedspread brushing soft against his palms; the flawless etching in ochre and orange pressed on the calloused pads of his fingers. Lorenz seemed familiar with the drug. As familiar as Claude hadn’t been: it had taken him a full week to figure out the cause of his unexplainable drowsiness, and another to move from poison to drugs in his search and discover the sleeping powders that were the latest boom in the herbalists’ shops: as expensive and untraceable as they were harmless, if one took them at an appropriate time and intending to fall sleep, not right before the afternoon council or a ride. Claude had only had to tolerate repeated narcolepsy bouts and multiple late arrivals and the judgemental stares of advisers and most of all, Lorenz, before realizing that his husband's discontent, the increased whispering behind his back and the court's resulting mirth were the intended effect, and he didn't have to concern himsef with the possibility of dying. For now. 

But untraceable didn't mean indetectable. 

It had taken him only two days to learn the smoky, oily taste of the powders. 

He smiled, said, “Not that the food was particularly palatable before…” Lorenz’s nostrils flared. Claude leaned back on his pillows until the cool iron of the headboard seeped the warmth from his bare shoulders. “It is,” he said at last. 

The silent staring went on after his words, almost acquiring meaning in the prolonged moment. Lorenz processed. And processed. 

“So, did the Goddess take corporeal form and visit to tell you or did Judith open her big mouth?” Claude asked. 

“I hardly believe that is our issue here,” Lorenz said. 

“ _ Our? _ ” Claude quirked a brow, knocked his head against the bed frame when he drew back in surprise. “There’s no need of that. I’ve got it handled.” 

Lorenz noticed his reticence and jutted out his chin. “I fail to see how. This is an insult to your name and your position. It required immediate action the moment it took place. How you have delayed bringing an end to this indignity baffles the mind." He was pacing the room back and forth, so intent in his words the mess he would have scoffed at during any other time went right over his head. The loose end of his coat belt floated behind him every time he turned around. "We would lose the respect of the court if they learned we allowed something like this to transpire.” 

“Such touching concern, thank you. Because the respect of the court weighs so heavy on my mind, as I said, I’m handling it.”

“Eating the food your...mercenaries bring you from outside the castle is not a solution. Yes, I am not completely oblivious to the occurrences of this place. I am speaking to the head cook and will replace him at once.”

Claude resisted the impulse to scrub a hand down his face. “You won’t. This doesn’t affect you in the slightest, Lorenz.” He breathed in before asking, forcing his tone to remain unchanged, “Will you stay out of it?” 

Stopping dead in front of the bed, Lorenz faced him one more time. “If you refuse to acquiesce my assistance, I must ask that you apprise me of whatever it is that you are plotting." 

Opening his arms, Claude said, “Do you truly think a cook would risk his career, his name, his life, to play shabby tricks with one of the rulers of his nation? Nelium is expensive,” slowly, willing his words to reach some place of understanding within Lorenz. He had not avoided the food in the castle for more than a month to have his plans ruined now. 

As groaning was probably above Lorenz's station, Claude gave him the benefit of the doubt and did not categorize the sound that came out of his mouth as such. “How can  _ everything _ be so convoluted with you?" Lorenz said. "Fine. Who is giving the orders then?”

“That’s what I want to find out, and won’t be able to if you start yelling at the cook.” 

Lorenz was shaking his head. “It is as simple as hiring someone reliable who will not be bought to betray the trust we put in him.” He had moved his eyes somewhere slightly over Claude's head, like looking directly at him would only serve to incense him further. 

“And what is stopping the next one from putting something worse in my food? A good reference? Pregnant ladies take nelium to sleep, it could have been worse.” 

Furrowing his brow Lorenz looked uncomprehending for a moment. Claude could almost see the moment it sank in that poisons existed and people died from them: he paled, his breath stuttered out of his lips. The Almyran court—preferring public duels and brawls and despising all things subterfuge—had few records of poisoning attempts, unlike the history of the Alliance. Yet the thought of poisoning affected Lorenz so, rendering him speechless for a moment. Was this what it meant to grow up sheltered? Or maybe what it meant to simply grow up trusting the world around you. And Claude still hadn’t told him about the calendum in his wine. 

“Who would…” He cleared his throat. “Do you at least suspect someone? Goddess, I should better ask if there is someone who you effectually trust.” If only he knew exactly how true that was. But after speaking he did allow his gaze to fall on Claude, so maybe he had some notion. Claude in return met his eyes, but offered nothing else to that searching look. 

Lorenz turned his eyes away first, shook his head for a long time before adding, “What do you require?" He pressed his eyelids closed for a moment, and upon reopening them noticed Claude's open-mouthed confusion. He explained, “To hasten your search. House Gloucester hired that cook almost ten years ago, I posses information about him.” That didn't clear anything up. Claude's eyebrows remained two high arches close to his hairline. “Do not look at me like that. I am simply offering help.” 

“Offering?" He gaped for a minute, found no speech possible for two, and finally managed to say, "If this is you  _ offering  _ something…” Lorenz rolled his eyes. He had that look of determination Claude knew from countless meetings signified he would not be deterred. I am not asking for your help, he didn’t say, because at this point he knew refusing the hand volunteered would cause more harm than good, despite his whole body resisting the intrusion. Claude said, a last attempt to persuade him, but also the unavoidable truth, “You may not like what I discover.”

“Here we go again. I see to whom the arrow is pointing, thank you. I will not waste my breath defending my father only for you not to believe me.” 

A frown pulled at Claude's brow, his eyes narrowed. This was definitely a step in the right direction, Lorenz aware of his father's more than questionable antics—because there was no doubt in Claude's mind regarding who was paying the cook to put drugs in his food. That it would come so easily with so little effort didn't fit. He had expected he'd need to exercise a greater deal of...handling. 

He was brought out of contemplation when Lorenz made a face at him, in what Claude could only guess was an attempt to mimic his own. It startled a laugh out of him, but his husband's features were once again his haughty own when he said, “We are supposed to be showing the Morfis ambassador around the gardens.”

“May I get dressed first?” And he gestured as if his state was hard to miss. 

Lorenz had, apparently, in his all-encompassing outrage, missed it. 

His eyes slid down Claude’s bare chest to where the blanket pooled in suggestive folds around his waist, and he blushed, violently. Claude could but watch in fascination as he snapped around and ran into the dresser right behind him. The pitcher of water there spun, dangerously close to the edge. Lorenz very gracefully fumbled until he righted it and then took a rigid step to avoid the vanity.

“Right.” He turned to Claude and aborted the movement in the last second, ended up saying as he stood in profile, “I will be downstairs," with his eyes carefully averted and thus missing Claude's helpless amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

After the door closed behind him with a faint click, Claude deflated on the bed, buried his face in his hands and thought intently of Judith's every ancestor. 

When he was done, he picked up Marianne’s invitation again, changing his Saturday plans as he continued reading. 

—

The Morfis ambassador’s visit at least proved gratifying. She praised the gardens, although she failed to see more than half of them after Lorenz made an offhand comment about his horses and they were waylaid to the stables for the better part of the morning. Claude hung back, losing the ambassador’s wife to the many charms of the horses as well as they surveyed Lorenz’s numerous mounts, but was forced to offer an opinion when the ambassador asked about his favorite. He admitted that the mare with the golden mane had caught his eye and seemed very elegant—also slightly pissed off, this he didn’t say—and received Lorenz’s pleased smile in return. Sometimes these things just came to one naturally, he supposed. 

He also admitted, if only to himself and grudgingly, that horses may have  _ some  _ appeal. When the golden mare nuzzled Lorenz’s head with her muzzle he was acutely reminded of Barbarossa. Of course if a grown wyvern did that with such impetus he would topple to the ground, and if a wyvern tried to chew a person’s hair as the horse was doing to Lorenz’s, some blood could be expected, but still, as a hatchling Barbie had liked to nibble on his old braid in a similar way. He had to pet the closest horse to get rid of the itch in his hands, but the soft hair was a poor substitute for the warm scaly skin. 

Lorenz eyed him warily as they left the stables. 

“I don’t  _ hate  _ them, I’m not a monster. They're simply not my preferred mode of transportation,” Claude said, and wasn’t sure Lorenz understood the difference. He would like to see him keeping his composure on a wyvern. 

It was noon already, which meant Claude had to trust Lorenz would let him see to the sleeping powders situation without any scandal. At the end of the meal he remained unsure if the outcome was to his liking or not. 

They arrived at the crowded dining hall after a brief interlude to freshen up and change clothes. Once they were announced to the courtiers there, the ambassador and her wife accompanied them to the seats of honor presiding the table. Lorenz stared at Claude for far too long while the servants brought the food, eerily silent, and then informed in a very unnatural voice, “My husband and I wish to eat from the same plate, thank you.” The servant stuttered. Claude choked on his drink. The Morfis ambassador patted him on the back with excessive force and decided to follow Lorenz’s example and do the same with her wife, saying something about young love and keeping the spark alive. 

When the servant left the plate between them—slightly broader than the usual to accommodate food for two people—and the ambassador busied herself feeding her wife, Claude turned to Lorenz, who was avoiding his eyes, to say through the wheeze in his lungs, “Superb acting choices there.” Only the faint pink tint over his cheeks seemed convincing. “Careful, I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

He earned a glare for this. Lorenz said, “Yes, would like you to _eat_ in order for you to be useful during the afternoon meetings.” After a moment of suspended disbelief during which the two of them stared at the lush salad of fresh vegetables placed barely within reach, in such an uncomfortable position unless they mushed their sides together—who would choose to do this voluntarily?—Lorenz rigidly leaned in to eat from their shared plate first. He somehow kept a precarious—yet elegant, definitely effortless from afar—balance on the edge of his seat, and only some strands of his long hair brushed Claude’s arm as he gathered it away from his face to fall over one shoulder before spearing a tomato slice and some lettuce with his fork, hand unwavering. He couldn’t help but follow the movement of his slender throat as he swallowed; a rare sight, more so at this new and sudden proximity. His eyes traced the faint mark that the tighter cravat Lorenz had worn before changing into a looser neckcloth had left indented in the pale, fine skin. 

Claude snapped his gaze back to the salad. “Useful?” he asked, clearing his throat. “That sounds like a compliment coming from you.” 

A tight smile that creased his lips was revealed when Lorenz stopped patting the corners of his mouth. Sometimes Claude just wanted to grab Lorenz by the shoulders and tell him very slowly that his mouth didn’t get dirty as often as he made use of his napkin. 

“Will you just eat the food.” Lorenz gave him a withering look. 

Claude rounded his eyes. “What! Not going to feed me too?” 

“I will feed you to a wild beast if you do not drop this,” Lorenz hissed, still wearing a smile, and shoved a fork in Claude’s hand before speaking over his head to the ambassador: “You must try the venison pie. It is just absolutely lovely!”

He supposed he appreciated being able to stop pushing food around his plate and eat at a decent hour, not whenever he could steal away to his quarters. He chewed slowly, unsurprised when he didn’t find the faint taste of the nelium he had taught himself, buying three jars and spending many hours in his chambers, how to differentiate. 

Still, Judith, very conveniently missing from lunch, had to answer some questions, or at least hear him complain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your support!!!^^  
> Also Happy New Year!! Can't believe it's already been like five months since this game came out o.o


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: in chapters 5 and 6 I wrote "Arlathan" instead of "Agarthan" which is the correct term. Sorry for the mistake, it's all fixed now!! also, not sure how it works, but if ao3 notifies those who have subscribed for editing the chapters i really apologize for the spam! Won't happen again ^^

When Saturday arrived Claude was certain nothing could surprise him anymore. Not that week at least, after the fever dream of sharing every meal with his husband repeated itself again and again, every day. In hindsight, he may have made more than one mistake. 

“Why did you request the services of a scholar? And especially a botanist?” Lorenz had said that morning. 

He had answered, chiding, “Knowledge is free and never a burden, Lorenz,” enjoying the slighted line between his husband’s eyebrows before he proceeded to be extensively proved wrong for the next two and a half hours. 

The first fifteen minutes passed according to plan: boring, but fruitful; the scholar Arthurio discussed information that the books Claude had checked lacked, and his maize research moved along in a neat, unsurprising direction. 

Then things changed. 

By the time they hit the thirty minutes mark, Claude had to make a conscious effort to stop his leg from bouncing, when Arthurio started talking about the genetic engineering necessary to make each type of maize the Alliance used for their crops (five) and the historical background for all of them, including the names of those who had contributed to the research with their insurmountable intelligence—Lorenz glowed beside him when one of his ancestors was mentioned. Arthurio’s lung capacity rivaling that of a twenty-year-old athlete and hence his string of words infinite, Claude kept failing to interject and redirect the lesson back to the topics of interest. 

After close proximity with him for over an hour, Claude could surmise that the scholar neared an age in which the preservation of his endless knowledge about crops, specifically maize, but not only—would they want him to bring samples of wheat seeds as well?—caused amazement and frustration both. 

“There’s no need for us to see the corn seeds either, do not trouble—” Claude was ignored as Arthurio upended little bag after little bag and seeds of corn spilled across the table. The scholar’s pulse, not as preserved as his mind, sent the yellow grains from one of the bags (the sweet corn) cascading down Claude’s lap. Busy trying to salvage what he could, Claude jumped in his chair unmaking his progress, when Arthurio reached into his lap to help him dig out seeds from the folds of his clothes; every protest he could make to stop him, short of using physical force, drowned by his continuous “Infinite apologies, Your Grace. So sorry. Allow me to fix this at once.” 

A strangled cough came from his side, and he raised his eyes to look at corn-free Lorenz, pressing the back of a suspicious hand over his mouth. He blinked, self-effacing and guileless, when their gazes met. 

But in the next second his attention was wrenched back to Arthurio and his maize, as the scholar grabbed his hands to move them over the first handful of seeds, ordering in a passionate voice for Claude to feel the texture of each kind of corn. Claude fondled seeds for the longest half hour of his life, until Arthurio judged he could differentiate between them. 

“Would His Grace want to try as well?” To Lorenz he bothered to  _ ask  _ first.

“No, I thank you. It will suffice if one of us retains this valuable knowledge.” Lorenz bowed his head in Arthurio’s direction and, to Claude, gave a practiced simper, ignoring his silent plea for help when the scholar resumed his lesson. 

Not the most resolute of Claude’s tutors had kept him trapped in a chair for over an hour, not for lack of trying. But none of them had hovered over him, wobbling on their octogenarian legs, bending their already hunched backs to maintain prolonged eye-contact with eyes bleary from age that made Claude question every decision that had led him here today. Every time he moved to rise from his chair—he needed to stretch his legs, breath some air, make his eardrums stop working and the influx of information to his brain cease—Arthurio inched closer, until, much to Lorenz's obvious amusement, Claude ended with his back buried in the armchair, a moment away from sliding down the chair to the floor. Despite the mere inches separating them, the voice of the botanist continued pitched as if for an audience, in its way to trigger a headache. 

Finally, before that could happen, Arthurio had to stop to drink some water. Shooting to his feet, Claude moved to stand by the window--considered jumping off it--and put as much possible distance between himself and the scholar. He said, "We appreciate your lesson, master Arthurio. The experience was certainly... enlightening. But we don't want to keep you from your lunch." 

The scholar put his glass down, looking about as the elderly, poor of sight and hearing, tended to do. "Lunch, Your Grace? I would be honored! We must still go over the nutritional values of the maize, of course." Like a mole exposed to sunlight, he squinted, eyes skipping over Claude's distant figure to fall to Lorenz sitting at the table. Oh, how the tables turned. 

But  _ now _ Lorenz decided to exercise his diplomacy. "You are certainly welcome to lunch, but I fear we have a previous appointment. We look forward to resuming the seminar at another time." And turning to one of the soldiers on duty, "Please escort master Arthurio to the dining hall to eat with the court." Lorenz led Arthurio to the doors, praising the scholar and the efficacy of the lesson in a neverending flurry of words; a wise tactic, Claude conceded, to assure no more about maize was uttered in that room. 

He covered a yawn with the back of his hand as he looked out the clear glass of the window, blinking the daze away. On the other side, although the ground-floor window only allowed a limited view, the gardens spread out in tidy stretches of green lush bushes pervaded with only a few, because it was still winter, bright spots of color as well in an ordered fashion. He could recognize only some of them: the Almyran lilies which were a nice surprise; the roses obvious with their thorns and dew-permeated buds of not-yet-spring that Lorenz sometimes wore in his jacket pocket; the bluebells were easy and the chrysanthemums eye-catching; his mother liked gardenias. He had been meaning to explore them more thoroughly, a chance to unwind, but had yet to do so and had only visited them with ambassadors or dignitaries to show around. 

Spotting Lorenz in his peripheral vision as he approached, he turned to fully look at him; at the bright light coming through the window that reflected in his eyes and the irrepressible twitch of his lips. Mirth agreed with the distinguished lines of his face. 

“Go on,” he said, stoical in his martyrdom. “Don’t strain yourself, laugh at my blunder.” 

“What do you mean?” His voice wavered. “It was… What did you call it? Enlightening.” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll admit, it is possible to know too much about maize.” He was sure when he undressed later that day seeds would fall from his clothes. 

“You looked positively frightened of such levels of erudition,” said Lorenz. 

“My thirst for knowledge is not quenched but drowned; suffocated!" Claude shook his fist with affected sentiment. "At one point I fully expected him to drag me all the way to the nearest field and teach me the proper way to harvest.” He huffed out a breath. “Can you imagine?” 

That did earn him a laught, a melodic chuckle he had heard once before—but only now could witness unfold unimpeded—that fell from Lorenz’s lips to ring between the two of them, in the process curling Claude’s lips as well. 

The grandfather clock striking the time brought them back to the present. Lorenz cleared his throat, wiped the corners of his eyes with a knuckle. “I should make haste now. I do have an appointment for lunch.” He walked in two long strides to the chair he had previously occupied to pick up his discarded coat and was almost to the door when Claude remembered.  “Ah. I wouldn't do that,” he said. 

Lorenz turned with a hand already around the doorknob. “What is it?” 

“I may also have requested a seminar from an agricultural meteorologist.” 

“Now?” Lorenz took a wary step back. 

Resisting a wince, he admitted, “Yes. I didn’t think it would take Arthurio _two hours_.” 

“I cannot stay. Marianne is throwing a surprise party for Hilda’s and Lysithea’s birthdays. We will tell him to postpone it.”

“I’m not risking it,” Claude said, and threw open the window. 

“Um," Lorenz managed, strangled. "What do you think you are you doing?” 

“Making sure I don’t listen to another lecture.”

“You cannot jump through a window!” This he expected. The next sentence he didn't, although he supposed even Lorenz must have had some overbearing tutors. “And you will not leave me to deal with him alone.” He stalked to catch up with Claude, already straddling the window frame. 

“Of course not. You can jump too. Come on, we're on the ground floor.”

“That is—”

“The shortest path to the east gazebo where the party is?” 

“ _ You’re invited _ ?” He must have realized the sheer horror in his voice—Claude always found it humorous when his vocal range stretched so—and softening the grimace carving his face, as far as those cutting cheekbones could be softened, added, “I mean, how...thoughtful of Marianne. She does think of everything.” 

Claude nodded extensively. “Yes, a canonized saint. Now, are you coming? Or will you be late for your friends' party?” 

Something passed over Lorenz's face. Lysithea didn’t seem the type to fuss over her own birthday, unlike Hilda, if he had judged her correctly from the few chances he had had to speak with her.  So with the probable thought of Hilda never letting him forget his unfashionable arrival to her party, Lorenz stopped shaking his head and looking like Claude had proposed a bout of boar wrestling in the gardens. “And our attendants?” he asked, still wary, thin brows pressing down.

“It’s the palace gardens, what is the worst that can happen?” That, and he had Leonie’s mercenaries keeping watch. 

Without further ado, Claude swung his leg over the frame and let gravity work its magic until his boots hit the soft soil of the patch of chrysanthemums. It could have been the thorny roses and it still would have been worth it just to avoid the flashback to the past where his tutors threatened to tie him to a chair. 

“How undignified,” Claude heard Lorenz say a moment before hearing his faint thump as he landed. He kept the last part of the improvised trail among the floras parted for him, only gently letting go of the frail stems of the flowers after Lorenz had emerged and vaulted over the waist-high fence with a wrist supporting his weight and a fluid movement of long legs and perfect balance; brushing leaves and petals from his hair and coat he stepped onto the established cobble-stoned path that navigated the tidy gardens. Claude followed. 

Around them the fancy grounds welcomed them with air fresh and crisp. With the season on its way to changing from winter to spring, Derdriu became a grateful host, quick to warmth and growth when the sun allowed. Much like the south of Almyra in many ways. Although here the port couldn’t compare to the rocky coast mastered by none of the southern sea of Almyra, violent waves crashing against the shore and daring any ship to part its waters, there was something just as fascinating about the view from the port in Derdriu, how there was no daring but a quiet communion of ocean, boat, and sailor; an order not as strict as this of the gardens where every type of flower was neatly separated from its neighbor, discouraged from ever sharing soil, but as efficient; an understanding between nature and human, and even more complicated, between humans themselves. 

They were advancing between the red roses and the Almyran lilies when Lorenz added his voice to the sounds of the trail; to the birds hidden by the trees, the hustle from the castle that sneaked outside through the open windows, the clanking armor of the soldiers on guard high on the walls surrounding the gardens. “If you had asked, I could have told you Arthurio has a...reputation.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me he was ever your tutor,” Claude said, suddenly very sympathetic to Lorenz. 

Lorenz huffed a breath. “No, thank the Goddess. I did not receive my education here at Derdriu. But Godfrey had a lot of funny stories about his tutors and Arthurio made the most appearances.” 

“Godfrey? I didn’t know you two were friends.” 

“We were not. He was at least ten years older, but still, he talked to practically anyone who would listen.” 

His mother had never talked much about her brother. His first knowledge of his uncle other than his existence had been of his death, and even Duke Riegan seemed more angry and suspicious than saddened by the loss. Lorenz was the only one that had ever said something to him about the man and not his death.

He found himself asking, “How was he like?” He had ample recollections and reports; he wanted Lorenz's insight. 

Lorenz hummed as he conjured up words. “Approachable, earnest; people were drawn to him not merely because of his position. He easily and more than willingly became the center of whatever room he inhabited, at court or at any other event to which he was invited. I do not think he knew how to go unnoticed.” He made a meaningful pause. Claude didn't need to return his gaze to know what he was thinking—the council meetings where he sat back, unobtrusive and mild, and let the advisers argue themselves hoarse until he could sweep in and catch them tired and malleable to suggestions. He had noticed Lorenz noticing, lately. But he met his eyes anyway, matching his raised eyebrow and quirked lips. Lorenz continued, " _ So _ much like you.” 

Claude huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head, but didn't answer, redirecting not only the conversation away from himself, but his thoughts as well, those incisive questions about what kind of person he would have become if he had grown up in a different nation. “Would he have made a good leader?” 

“My father says—” Lorenz made a visible effort to stop. And continued after shaking his head as if to disperse a stray thought, “I think he would have been either an unhappy ruler or a poor one. He despised any serious matters that came his way. And although he possessed true friends, some merely wanted to take advantage of his position. He failed to notice the difference.” He paused for the span of three steps. “At least that is what I believe. I was very young for most of the time we knew each other.” 

He waited for Lorenz to ask why he didn’t know his own uncle, but when he glanced at him he found him staring resolutely ahead. 

“My mother doesn’t like talking about her family,” something prompted him to say. Maybe just the knowledge of how conversations worked, a back and forth, necessary for two people to offer something. 

“Oh.” Lorenz’s surprise bloomed across his face in stages, settled on intense interest to which only his intense noble manners kept him from giving voice. Silence threatened to cover them then, as it became evident Claude would not share anything else. But Lorenz came to the rescue, “I sometimes forget you actually share blood. You resemble him so little.” 

“What?" And forming a big half triangle with thumb and forefinger, in the shape of the bulbous nose he had seen on his grandfather's face and Godfrey's portraits, making it hover over his nose: "Do I not possess the Great Riegan Nose?” 

Lorenz laughed like he could hear the capitalization. “I fear you do not. But I am sure our portrait painter will be grateful when the time comes." 

—

In the end, they arrived shortly after noon. Time enough only for greetings and Marianne looking radiant that they had come, as sincere as her invitation. Claude let his eyes follow the scent of chamomile to the already set table and the steaming teapot buried among trays and trays of sweetmeats and sandwiches. But mostly sweets. 

As Lorenz mingled with the throngs of nobles, Marianne approached him. "I'm so glad you could come," she said with a smile slow in the making, her eyes flitting away to the gardens at the last second. 

"I can’t say I wasn’t a little surprised to receive your letter,” said Claude. 

"We haven’t had time to get to know each other very well, don’t you agree? You and Lorenz are working so hard since your investiture.” Slowly, as if every word meant to hesitate, but with more than enough strength backing each of them. “I thought you would like a break." 

He wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from staring had he not suspected she would have hated it. He hadn't mingled much with the nobles at court, but Marianne appeared to him an outlier at once--truthful and earnest, shy yet caring. “Yes, I do appreciate it. Very much.” And he told her about his fraught morning dealing with persistent scholars, was awarded the sound of her laugh. Afterward, he asked, “Did you do this all by yourself?”

Marianne shook her head, tucked a long coil of hair behind her ear. “Lorenz helped. He is more...sociable than I am, and knows practically everyone to who Hilda and Lysithea talk. I don’t know what I would have written to all these people.” She bit her lip before deciding to say, “I did write to you without his knowing, though.” 

And she spoke of the past, of how this time last year she and Hilda had visited Enbarr to celebrate Hilda’s birthday and then made a hasty retreat to Ordelia territory to surprise Lysithea, picking up Lorenz on their way, arriving just in time for her brithday. Claude learned their birthdays were on different days, but this year Marianne and Lorenz had wanted to surprise them both at the same time. “I thought this year would be perfect for that, since we are all here. How do you celebrate your birthday?" 

He looked at her as she still looked away, politely curious, curiously interested, but free of the incisive intent everyone who asked him something showed. 

“Something like this,” he said, and added, not wanting to tip over all the way to dishonesty, “Maybe more food, and some more people, but close enough.” He couldn't well say that the Almyran Crown Prince’s birthday was celebrated with a huge feast of indeterminate length and a wyvern parade afterward. He did want to share, but couldn’t, that more than one year—more than two and three—multiple nobles had precipitated to the ground mid-flight, passed out from too much food and drink. At some point someone had suggested harnesses for the occasion, removing most of the fun. 

A servant sprinting towards them interrupted them, and the crowd moved to stand closer together in front of the table as Hilda and Lysithea rounded the corner of the garden and came into view among a chorus of Happy Birthdays. 

Hilda gasped, loudly, and gesticulated, wildly, which included a half swoon falling into Marianne’s waiting arms that buckled under the weight until Hilda reversed their positions to hold her close, yelling about how exciting and unexpected the surprise had been. Claude cocked his head towards Lorenz who had reappeared by his side now holding two colorfully wrapped packages. “She knew, didn’t she?” 

“How could you possibly tell?” Then he winced. “Don’t tell Marianne.” 

The other birthday girl just stood there, lips parted in silence, until Marianne turned to her to ask her if she liked the surprise. 

“I- I… Yes. Thank you Marianne.” She cleared her throat before surrounding Marianne with a tight grip as sudden as it was quick. Then she was stalking away and wrenching a chair from the table to sit on it.

Everyone else followed. 

It was the first time he saw them together outside court functions. Lysithea ate more than anyone, and glared at Claude every time he offered her some more sweets, but accepted them all the same. He gladly tucked away this knowledge for a later time. Hilda startled him into laughter more than once, which in turn made  _ her  _ laugh, loud and unrepentant. She spoke almost as much as he did, but mostly to Marianne sitting by her side. The latter seemed wholly changed among her friends, not a whiff of the tentative smile she had worn with Claude. 

And Lorenz, impossibly, astoundingly, had failed to wipe a spot of powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. Claude found his eyes drawn to it whenever he looked at him. 

It had happened when the time to open the presents had arrived, and Lorenz had focused on watching his friends receiving their gifts; Hilda fussing over every one of them, tearing open the ribbons and paper with gleeful satisfaction, and Lysithea steadily unwrapping the packages with a curl on her lips and bright eyes. 

He had thought he knew all of them, from reports and distant observation. The amount he didn’t know was abysmal. 

The sun was setting when he realized most of the guests had slowly dripped away, either to take one stroll through the gardens to bathe under the last light of the day or to get away from the neverending incoming of irresistible food. Cyril arrived then, just in time for the guard change, sporting a murderous frown for which Claude needed no interpreter: he had ditched his guards hours ago and not told him. Judging by his punctuality though, he had known exactly where to find him, and that along with the fact Claude had no new holes in him and wasn’t lying in a ditch, should have lessened his anger. Should. 

Lysithea noticed him as he took position just outside the gazebo, with an unobstructed view of Claude, and she left the table to greet him, not without taking a small apple tart. At once his expression changed, his features instead of his glower reflecting Lysithea’s good humor—as new to him as it was contagious and to which the numerous sweets had contributed a great deal. 

“Who is that?” Hilda asked. 

“Cyril,” said Claude. 

Lorenz offered, “Claude’s retainer.” 

Stretching her neck without the least compunction, Hilda peered over them as they talked too quietly for their conversation to carry. She said, “I can’t remember the last time Lysithea voluntarily gave someone a sweet that she could be having instead.” 

“I can’t the remember the last time Cyril accepted food while on duty,” Claude agreed and exchanged a glance with Hilda before he returned to watching, not subtly, as Cyril removed his glove before taking the tart from Lysithea. 

“He looks sweet,” said Marianne. All of them agreed. 

Then Hilda’s smile turned positively wolfish. “Speaking of sharing—”

“That’s my foot, Lorenz,” Marianne said in a low voice audible to the three of them around her. 

Lorenz winced, “I am so sorry!” 

Hilda continued, unperturbed, “Are you two being shy today—not sharing your plate? You do not need to hold back on our account. Although I do find that practice so tiresome and uncomfortable. Mainly because Marianne prefers vegetables and I cannot resist a good steak, but I guess it works for you two.” She blinked, expectant. “Doesn’t it?”

Offering as sweet a smile of his own, Claude said, “It was Lorenz’s idea.” And patting his forearm he turned to him. “Wasn’t it?” 

Clearing his throat, Lorenz found this time his intended target and stepped on Claude’s foot until he stopped touching him. “That is for the benefit of the court, there is no need for it among friends.” 

“Really,” she drawled. “You seemed to be having so much fun yesterday.” 

Yesterday’s menu: lobster with honey and garlic, mussels on the side. Apparently, Lorenz didn’t like mussels either, had tried and failed to surreptitiously push them to Claude’s half of the plate. Claude had sent them back, along with his own. When Lorenz realized he retaliated, miscalculated, and sent one sliding over the table to fall into Judith’s lap. This situation was in part her fault, so Claude hadn’t felt too bad about it—had in fact choked back laughter only not to attract attention—no matter how much Lorenz fussed afterward. He had then eaten more than his share of the slippery mollusks, if only to stop Lorenz from looking so glum. 

“Fun? It was mortifying,” Lorenz said airily, and proceeded to change the topic with nimble words and the help of Marianne. He had made use of his napkin some time ago.

But Hilda kept her eyes on Claude for a moment longer, appraising. He didn’t need to think too hard to discern her reasons. He had his fair share of cousins in arranged marriages, knew how it looked like from outside when the couple became closer—or seemed to, for of course it was nothing but pretending most, if not all, of the time. It definitely was in their case. Lorenz would never trust him enough to move past forced acquaintances, and Claude couldn’t afford to let his guard down if he intended to keep his plans in motion. True, neither of them hated the time they spent together, which meant simply they could adapt, like how the eerie silence of the tower and his bedroom, where not the hustle of every-day life at the castle or the roaring of wyverns demanding breakfast reached, didn’t bother him anymore. 

And anyway, what little accord they had reached would fracture as soon as Claude mentioned the calendum in his wine about which he had failed to inform Lorenz for almost two months; hoping to find some evidence to show Lorenz he had continued to delay the unavoidable, never expecting that as the season slowly changed and the ice cracked and melted he would find himself empty-handed and unable to keep track of a discussion when Lorenz took a sip of his drink, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. 

He had failed to find any leads, and the boiling uselessness finally led him to tell Lysithea, late that evening of the celebration before calling it a night, to set a date for the much-delayed conversation. 

—

Claude could not say he liked waiting, and although nobody would have ever called him an impatient man, the three weeks that followed found him in a restless mood. He had reached the dead end of the dead end, and after deciding to admit defeat—he would not find any leads on his own or with Lysithea's help—and tell Lorenz about the calendum he hadn't expected he would have ahead of him more waiting. Lysithea had said, "You've already waited  _ this  _ long. Don't you dare tell him without me," before leaving for some pressing business of her House. 

So he continued reading every report Leonie sent his way—each one more boring than the last—about unfamiliar servants, shady courtiers, herbalists that sold more than they ought to. He kept sharing his meals with Lorenz and found one morning in his mail a detailed and unscrupulous account of the head cook's life story. No scented paper this time. He ended up meeting with the agricultural meteorologist, with much trepidation and Cyril for support. Lorenz would not play along if he had to faint and leave the room, and Cyril, who still hadn't returned Lysithea's handkerchief, needed a distraction. The scholar was no Arthurio though. Claude could have thanked even the Goddess.

He also had ample time to speak with Judith behind closed doors. He lamented at length about how she had betrayed his trust and complained about sharing his meals with Lorenz, did not mention how useful his letter about the cook had been. Judith shut him up quick enough. "How long would it have taken for someone to find out where you got your food and do something about it? Just admit you needed the help, boy." 

Claude had not admitted it. 

Judith had patted his head and smiled when he shook her off. "You two are getting along good enough. If the Gloucester boy wants to help just accept it." 

Claude wondered if she had called Lorenz that to his face when she had shamelessly revealed to him the truth about him skipping meals; he wished he could have seen Lorenz's face. 

And then Lysithea returned one afternoon as the Pegasus Moon was soon to end and that same evening the two of them met with Lorenz in the library. Lysithea gave him a withering look when she saw the small bottle of calendum he had brought. And the Agarthan knife. Before she could say anything about it Lorenz entered the library—attendant-free as requested. Claude felt his wary eyes on him at once. This time he could not say he enjoyed them—they would prove to be justified in a moment. 

"There's something we have to tell you," Claude said and winced, he hoped, only internally. Poor choice of words—awfully suspicious, if Lorenz's frown was anything to go by. He couldn't think the conversation would go any better.

After Lorenz had sat opposite them, Claude slid the small bottle to him over the table, then the knife. The wooden surface between them looked much too broad and insurmountable. Fine as library tables went, Claude supposed. Maybe he should have sat closer. 

"Remember when I spilled wine all over you during the tournament?"

Lorenz would not have believed everything he told him if Lysithea hadn't backed him up. It was unsurprising, it stung all the same. Only a little. Only enough that he could have slapped himself: he hadn't come to the Alliance wanting people to trust him. Lorenz didn't even know who he was. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lorenz was saying now. To Lysithea. She was the one bearing the betrayal in his eyes while Claude had only to face a mix of disappointment and resentment and strengthened mistrust all of it encased in the reinforced steel of his eyes. 

Pale, she said, "I thought if fewer people knew, they would relax enough to slip up, leave their trail open. I thought we could find something for you, an answer, before telling you. Knowing someone out there wants to harm you, not knowing who or why… I thought it would be worse."

Claude said, "I convinced her—" 

"I made my own choice," Lysithea interrupted him as Lorenz said turning to him, "You," and laughed, gave a bitter smile, not pleasant to watch, so different from the usual haughty or pleased or defiant curl of his lips. "A gadfly," he mocked. "How stupid did you think me?" 

"I didn't think that." 

The chair rattled behind him when Lorenz pushed away from the table and to his feet. He was still holding the polished knife and the coiled vial of poison, knuckles white around them. Claude prepared himself for the crash of glass when Lorenz inevitably threw the items to the floor, but with a visible effort he lowered them on the table instead, finally letting them go with careful disgust. The vial fell on its side but didn't spill. 

"And I suppose all you found out in these two months while you hid this from me is that a servant went missing during the tournament and his livery was found by the river and he failed to collect payment for his services," Lorenz said, voice cold. 

He wasn't looking at either of them, but the astonished silence that followed moved him to raise his eyes. 

" _ His clothes? _ " Lysithea almost-but-not-quite-screeched. Claude looked at Lysithea. Lysithea looked at him. 

When they turned to Lorenz his frown was no longer only furious, stumped by the sudden inerest.  "Yes, a jacket and a vest," Lorenz said slowly. 

Claude could have knocked his head against the table, but Lysithea slapping his arm with a faint gasp proved to have the same effect. She rose and rounded the table to approach Lorenz. She said, "What did you do with them? Do not tell me you threw them away or washed them or, or— Lorenz!" She grasped his elbows, seemed on the verge of shaking him out of his stupor. 

How had Claude missed that? He had sent Leonie's mercenaries to scout the tents and their surroundings to look for anything out of place. How could he have been so negligent?

"I had them stored somewhere, I believe. In case the servant turned up," Lorenz said. 

"How did you find them?" Claude asked.

His movements were reluctant, stiff, when he turned from Lysithea to him. Claude waited, holding the weight of his furious stare. Eventually, Lorenz gritted, "A maid found them and informed one of my attendants." 

Straightening in his chair, Claude followed their conversation as Lysithea asked about the estate of the clothes and Lorenz and her started discussing magic spells and whether they could find some trace of the Agarthan in his clothes. Claude knew the knife hadn't been enough for Lysithea to use a tracking spell, but maybe along with the clothes they could work. Before he knew it was happening, Lysithea was leaving to get the clothes from wherever Lorenz's attendant had stored them.

When the door clicked shut behind Lysithea, Lorenz regarded him.  "And you? Lysithea said she didn't want to worry me needlessly. What about you? I cannot believe you particularly cared about my sensibilities?" 

Claude looked at his clasped hands on the table for a moment before rising to meet Lorenz's eyes. He walked until they stood on the same side of the table. "I didn't. If you'd told the wrong people we'd surely never find the culprit."

The answer didn't surprise Lorenz. "This, again."

"Your father is under house arrest for plotting treason. The only reason he isn't detained in a cell is that you are his son. Forgive me if I am suspicious." 

"My father wrote letters," Lorenz said. 

Letters? Plural letters? Claude narrowed his eyes. 

_ "One _ letter." But his voice wavered slightly. "Showing dissent. He is not a murderer. He would never poison anybody." 

Shrugging, Claude asked, "Who do you think has the most reasons to frame me, then?"

Lorenz pressed two fingers against his temple, laughing softly in disbelief. "Why is this about you?"

"Who would want  _ you _ out of the way?" Claude said, genuine in his curiosity. He would never have expected Lorenz's reply; he should have. Judith had said during one of their conversations something about mutual trust, about putting himself in Lorenz's place. It seemed he had spectacularly failed at that as well, because Lorenz, stricken, gritted,  _ "You!"  _ and Claude froze. 

He grasped for words. "I'd never—"

"You fill the castle with mercenaries," Lorenz took a step toward him, "you charm the ambassadors," and another step, "you gain my friends' trust." He stopped advancing, allowing a pause in which he took a deep breath. His chest still rose and fell in a shuddering tempo. "I was unaware the cook was putting nelium in your food, how is it not possible one of your people put poison in my drink." 

Claude was already shaking his head. His people? Did he mean Judith? His dying grandfather? He opened his mouth to loftily deny it at length— But he recalled Lorenz offering his help, when he had spent a month trying to figure out by himself who was behind the truth of his drugged meals. He watched Lorenz pressing his lips together, pale, eyes wide and confused: He watched Lorenz as he looked down at his husband whom he knew nothing about. 

Something deflated inside him. "Lorenz, I..."

Hurried steps and the door opening and closing. And Lysithea arrived while their gazes were still locked together, saw them staring each other down, probably closer than they had ever stood. Claude had not found the appropriate words yet. They seemed stuck in his throat. 

Lysithea said, "Maybe I should come back later." 

"No," said Lorenz. "I am done. You two can amicably chat and discuss any attempts at my safety as you see fit." 

Claude lurched to stop him. Without thinking grabbed his wrist. "Lorenz, wait," he said, but Lorenz shook him off, pulled his arm out of his grasp with a violent jerk that almost unbalanced them both. 

His voice shook. "Don't touch me." 

He slammed the door behind him, and the sound echoed in the library, empty except for two silent people. 

"Are those the clothes?" he managed to ask after a long moment of staring at the door as if it would open to reveal Lorenz's return. Claude would take any waspish remarks over the chilling frost in Lorenz's voice. 

Lysithea nodded, not looking at him, clutching the bundle of clothes to her chest. "I think I should go." She still refused to meet his eyes.

_ You gain my friends' trust,  _ Lorenz had said. 

So he refrained from reaching out to her as she left. 

Alone in a library, for once he didn't feel like any book could help pass the time; still the thought of bumping into Lorenz on the stairs froze him in place. It didn't matter, for Claude didn't think Lorenz would wish to ever do it again, that lately they had taken to leaving the afternoon meetings together and returning to their chambers amidst their combined attendants, who ignored Claude's nonsensical comments and failed to notice Lorenz's responses to them—either a long-suffering sigh or a barely-there flicker of a smile that showed itself fleetingly whenever the candlelights fell upon his mouth as they climbed the windowless stairs. 

Now he waited, until he was sure he wouldn't run into him. Stepping out, he closed the doors behind him in silence—they did not creak, hinges new and smooth after Lysithea's magical outburst some weeks ago—and listened for any hint of footsteps. 

When he didn't find any, he put one foot on the first step, and then the next. One of Leonie's mercenaries fell into position behind him, discreet and voiceless, and the sound of his heavy boots was what accompanied Claude to his quarters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! :)  
> Next chapter: DANCING, FINALLY. (This next chapter may take a bit longer because I'm writing some things for Claurenz Week, and I start university again soon, but I'm really excited to share what's coming!)


	7. VII

_ Dear Father, I hope the New Year finds you at peace. As you well know, responsibilities keep me at Derdriu, and I write to express how sorrowful I am about your absence, which will undoubtedly mar the celebrations— _

_ Father, I write to inquire after your wellbeing— _

_...I understand you must be busy and preoccupied, be it that this letter settles your mind, for I do not let my mind stray far from thoughts of your comfort and wait to hear words from you... _

_...for the Minister has not written to me regarding news, but I will assure they conduct themselves with the utmost respect— _

At his desk, amidst a number of crumpled papers as high as it was shameful—Lorenz was not a boy anymore, long past the age to fumble with his words and press blotches of ink on the paper—Lorenz buried his face in his hands and exhaled a long breath. 

Since his father had left the capital to begin his mandatory seclusion in Gloucester estate, Lorenz had struggled to write to him. It had not helped that his father’s replies were curt and scarce, even more than usual. Still, despite his lengthy endeavors this last letter—he must write to his father before the New Year began, since he would not be seeing him during the celebrations—resisted his every effort with much more persistence than the rest that had come before.

And Lorenz knew exactly why. 

Resolutely, he crumpled yet another piece of parchment and, setting a crisp one before him and sinking the pen in the inkpot, sidestepped that unwanted route where his mind kept returning. 

This time, the words flowed smoothly as they always did when he addressed his mother. There was no shortage of conversation when he wrote to her; his hand moving just as readily as his thoughts, as if she was in front of him listening to him talk about the endless trivialities sprinkled in his days: some harmless gossip at court to entertain her, to make her laugh; Cashmere and his endeavors to accustom her to the city; his favorite patisserie's new honey pastries; the splendid glamor of the gardens starting to bloom, though they yet struggled when from the sea, the colder days the wind blew unforgiving. Because the occasion had lent a laugh to his breath, he started recollecting his introduction to Arthurio—and his hand twitched, splashing a stray line of ink on the paper. 

Lorenz pressed his lips together and closed his eyes until the urge to slam the pen on his desk ceased. He would not lose his composure in such a way, even in the privacy of his chambers with only his attendants within hearing range. 

But maybe it was for the best that writing escaped him at the moment. After all his mother had asked in her last letter for an account of his married life, and what would he say to  _ that _ , when the man she asked about was the reason his thoughts were so befuddled.

As things were, his regard for his husband had been subjected to such a change, the two weeks that had passed since Claude and Lysithea talked to him had served not to lessen his anger, but to bank it—so that he could sit by Claude during meetings and meals as if things remained the same but lie, sleepless at night, thinking what a fool he had been, offering to share his meals with Claude, trying to help him find whoever was putting sleeping powder in his food, enjoying their conversations and believing what scarce information he volunteered was anything genuine. 

Time, too, had allowed for clarity, paired with the unwanted perspective from the conversations he’d had with Lysithea. She had explained her reasons again, which Lorenz could if not understand then forgive: these were the people that had done nameless things to her and her family, she knew more than he did about them and their methods. He couldn’t fault her for trusting Claude either, he had come dangerously close to doing the same, letting himself get caught by his rare moments of earnestness and easy conversation. 

She had also insisted on telling Claude’s side of the story. Lorenz could not care for it.

Except...some part of him saw understanding in the act of keeping secrets. Lorenz hadn’t been, after all, entirely truthful either. But no: Lorenz’s secrets didn’t concern Claude’s life, they were a family matter while Claude had carelessly endangered Lorenz’s life. To this, Lysithea told him that Claude had sent some of his guards, by which she meant mercenaries, to the kitchens to assure the safety of the drinks served to Lorenz. When Lorenz had ordered his attendants to investigate the matter they came back corroborating Lysithea’s words. 

Before Lysithea had left his anteroom, Lorenz had asked about her latest trip: “Did your business with Hanneman proved satisfactory?” 

Lysithea, one hand already on the door, turned to say, “Yes.” Lorenz remained quiet, never sure whether or not to press her to talk about Hanneman’s research and the therapy he conducted to lengthen her life. She was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, uncharacteristic, to say the least, and after a rigid pause, she did continue: “He thinks he has found a method to remove Crests.” 

Lorenz had been stacking the teacups they had used for the servants to take away. One of them almost didn’t survive Lysithea’s words and the shock that ran through Lorenz like lightning. “What?” he sputtered, setting the cups on the tray with a weakened grip.

“Do you think it possible, Lorenz?” Lysithea said, words fleeing from her lips. “I know you never focused on Crest research, but you’re one of the people most well-versed on Reason I know.” 

“If he says it is possible, then surely…”

“Would you do it? If it were you?” she asked, voice low and eyes wide and young. 

No hesitation halted him now. Lorenz closed the distance between them to settle his hands on her shoulders.“Of course I would, if it meant living.” He tightened his grip. “When Hanneman can assure you of proper results and that no harm will come of it, certainly.”

Slowly, she nodded, holding his gaze. “Don’t tell the others. It’s still on the air until further notice,” she said. 

“My lips are sealed,” he assured her, not giving in to the urge to embrace her. She disliked it when he fussed. 

Her mouth curled in a small smile. “I will get back to you about the Agarthan’s clothes and the tracking spell.” She was already turning toward the door again. “Cyril has promised to help.” 

This time, the doorknob was in her hand when Lorenz halted her once more. “Are you sure that is wise?” 

And this time, when she looked at him, a line marred her brow. “He has been a great help these past months. He is clever and cooperative. He always listens and…” Lysithea cleared her throat. “And with you and Claude so busy who would I turn to? We agreed the fewer people know the better.” 

“You seem to have spent a great deal of time with him,” said Lorenz. 

She tilted up her chin. “I have.” 

“And you think it wise,” he repeated.

“Stop saying that! What do you even mean?” She threw her hands upward. “Is this about your fight with Claude?”

“Who is fighting with Claude?” Lorenz scoffed. “Fighting implies there is a conflict to be resolved. And I think our situation as it stands now is the best our marriage can offer.”

Lysithea said, “Really,” flatly.

“What I mean,” Lorenz said, ignoring her half-lidded eyes, “is that you ignore much about Cyril. I would recommend caution—”

“I am aware he served the Almyran army, if that’s what you are getting at.” Lorenz had only the opportunity to realize his mouth was, in a wholly unseemly fashion, hanging open, before she resumed: “He also told me you knew. Both he and Claude think you are going to let it out at court. Willingly,” she added. “And especially now.”

This, too, defied all logic. “Who do they take me for?” 

“Someone who wants to get back at Claude?” She shrugged. “I did tell them you wouldn’t but they weren’t convinced. He would need to send Cyril away if the court learned about Cyril’s previous loyalties.”

“Well, of course he would! The worst court has to offer would make of Cyril their target if they knew he had fought against Leicester at some point, even if he must have been, what, no older than fourteen at the time? He was probably a page, or the Almyran equivalent. I would never—”

Lysithea’s voice interrupted him, a coiled, sharp sound that was not a word. 

“Excuse me?” Lorenz blinked. 

After repeating it, she smiled. “That’s the Almyran word for what he did in the army,” she said, a proud tilt to her mouth. 

If wariness and care had motivated Lorenz before, when he thought Cyril had only been helping Lysithea track down the Agarthan, now dismay utterly colored his words when he said, “He is teaching you Almyran!”

Her smile faltered. “So?”

_ “So?”  _ he repeated, befuddled. “You not only spent an inordinate amount of time with him investigating, you also meet to learn his mother tongue? And he, very obviously, has you in his confidences. And,” he suddenly remembered, “you give him sweets!” 

Faint pink dusted Lysithea’s cheeks. “We’re friends.” 

“I have seen the two of you together, please. I thought it was simple infatuation, not… Look at you,” he added softly, “you care for him.”

Pink turned a furious red, she curled her upper lip, discovered and disdainful. “Are you going to say again that it isn’t wise?”

“It most certainly is not,” Lorenz blurted—he regretted it the next second. “Wait, Lysithea—” But amidst a flurry of skirts and long hair she was opening the door and slamming it shut behind her.

—

Claude chose the day after the argument with Lysithea to start trespassing Lorenz’s clearly drawn line by speaking to him. Up until that point they hadn’t exchanged anything more than the necessary pleasantries in front of the court while they, still, shared meals or the customary discussions while they negotiated around the council table, the passage of time bringing closer and closer the end of the year for which they must add even more frantic tasks to their already packed schedule. On top of their usual duties they had to arrange the preparations for New Year’s celebrations and supervise that the invitations were sent, the catering and musicians hired, the decorations designed. 

As the council room emptied that evening and Lorenz stacked the documents on which he still needed to work—which he planned to do in the calm solitude of his chambers, thank you—Claude soundlessly slid into the vacant chair next to him. Lorenz ignored him, continued to pick up his belongings as Claude watched him with his body turned in his direction, laying his cheek on one lazy hand to prop himself on the table. 

At last, “I know you’re just leaving to work in your room,” Claude said. “Will it not go quicker if we do it together? You see we’re just wasting time right? Going over reports and letters twice separately when we already have so much extra work checking that the extravagant— That is, extraordinary, memorable party is going according to plan—”

“You are welcome to leave all the preparations to me,” was all Lorenz deigned to say, and over his shoulder, busy searching for his pen. 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Claude pushed, undeterred, letting his elbow slid over the table until he reached new levels of unbecoming slouches. 

Lorenz, not returning the gaze he knew Claude to seek, was in the process of opening his second folder to look for his pen inside when it sank in. “My pen, if you are so kind.” He extended his hand. 

Beaming up at him, Claude failed to either deny Lorenz’s accusation or produce the pen from wherever he had hidden it. 

“I do not have the patience for this,” Lorenz said, moved to stand. 

The chair had but barely dragged two inches when, after a soft clink, Lorenz looked up to see his pen on the table in front of him. “Look,” Claude had straightened, shoulders pushed back, “we really need to speak about this."  _ This, _ that's what he would call it.  __ Like he hadn't wormed his way in Lorenz's life hiding vital information from him, endangered his safety, in the process accusing him of childish naivety and showing just how little he trusted Lorenz. "And I’ve tried to give you time," Claude continued, "but it’s been two weeks and you won’t look at me. And that’s fair, except that we don’t only have to rule a nation together, but also find whoever is responsible for meddling in our lives.  _ And  _ organize a party."

“I ignored," Lorenz said, "such levels of eagerness within you to discuss New Year’s Eve,” and taking advantage of Claude's stunned pause he rose and donned his coat, gathered the stack of papers in his arms and braced it against his chest as some sort of menial barrier when Claude caught up with him before Lorenz's long strides led him to reach the door.

"I deserve that," Claude said, serious despite the parentheses etched in one corner of his mouth, "but now will you listen to me?" 

Lorenz held his gaze as he closed his hand around the doorknob and pushed to slam open the door—but the heavy wood stood unmovable in place, stuck and unbending beneath Lorenz's strength. 

"What," Lorenz hissed, "did you do now?" 

"What?" Claude frowned. "I did nothing. Are you sure it's not just a bit stuck? Sometimes it—" 

"Does this appear  _ a bit stuck  _ to you?" Lorenz snapped, punctuating his words with another vicious push that would have thrown open the door if it weren't for what seemed like a lock firmly drawn in place. 

It still did not budge. Claude snaked his hand around the doorknob as well. "Will you let me help?" he said when Lorenz knocked him back with his shoulder.

"I think you have done enough," Lorenz shot back, uselessly shaking the door in its hinges now with both hands, the load of documents and folders forsaken to the floor. "Someone locked this door. If it is one of your ruses, I swear to the Goddess—" 

Claude groaned. "And what would I accomplish with that, pray tell?" 

From the corner of his eye Lorenz could see him moving his hands over the hinges, feeling around the frame, fingertips tracing the cleft where door and wall met. Claude knelt to take a closer look at the keyhole, unceremoniously knocking Lorenz's legs away with his back. 

All Lorenz heard was a sharp intake of breath—and even this he more felt than heard, his leg pressed to Claude's side—and then all movement ceased. Claude muttered a curse. 

"Give me your hand," Claude, for lack of a better word, commanded. 

"I will not—"

Lorenz's hand was grabbed and pressed to the gaping mouth of the keyhole; shocking cold bit his skin. When he drew away his fingers were wet. 

"Do we agree that I do not know any magic?" Claude asked as he stood. "Nor does Cyril, if you plan to accuse him next."

They looked at one another. Claude's shoulders were drawn with tension, his brow severe and darkening his eyes, in which a tumult of thoughts gathered, trapped behind his pursed lips. But Lorenz didn't need words to understand. Despite his heart capsizing in his chest and the tight ring around his throat that came with the incipient disquietude of their situation—and the hard-won knowledge of how his husband looked under duress—his mind remained clear. 

It was Lorenz that now held Claude's wrist as Claude took a step back to kick open the door."Please," Lorenz said, "refrain from the dramatics," and conjured a faint glow to his fingertips that warmed the copper of the lock within seconds. 

The slow but continuous trickle of water as the ice freezing the lock melted, obeying the heat under Lorenz's command, soaked the door. It stained the mahogany a darker shade as drop after drop slid down to pool on the floor. Lorenz was aware of Claude's eyes on him—and then the lock was drained, the ice unmade. The door creaked open—the first sound since Lorenz had started his spell—when Claude gave it a push, careful not to touch the heated metal. 

Claude stepped over the puddle of water first, bolted into the corridor—the deserted corridor. 

"Why would they do such a thing?" Lorenz asked, once their frantic search, heads turning left and right, snapping the closest curtains open, turned no profits. There was little else they could do: the corridor offered a poor place to hide, and neither of them thought whoever had locked them up would have remained to watch them emerge. 

"We should check our rooms,” Claude said. “Meet me in my quarters in ten minutes?"

—

Not ever had two flights of stairs lengthened so. Lorenz had climbed the steps two at a time, as fast as his legs allowed, only noticing the presence of the palace guards, absolutely unbothered—they had not heard or seen anything suspicious. Behind him Claude had followed, steps so silent even in their hurry Lorenz had turned a couple of times to make sure he was there, until departing for his rooms. Claude had gone left, Lorenz right.

Everything had stood in its place. As Lorenz barged into his rooms, his manservant had risen to his feet, weary around the eyes and one hand covering his mouth, in the middle of a yawn. 

"Your Grace?" he had said. "Is there something wrong?"

After stammering some excuse for his altered state and inquiring a short interrogation, Lorenz had sent him with a message for the captain of his guard to increase the number of soldiers outside the council room and on the First Tower, and dismissed him for the night. He left for Claude's rooms accompanied by the mercenary he found waiting for him outside his door. 

He had spoken to her once before. 

"Fun night, huh?" Leonie had said. 

Lorenz stood in Claude's anteroom now, having been offered a plump armchair to sink in and a welcome glass of liquor from which he had only taken one sobering mouthful before laying on the table, hands firmly clasped on his lap. Claude had only pretended to sit for a moment before leaping to his feet to pace the length of the room. 

"Should we raise the alarm?" Lorenz asked after Cyril, summoned from bed because he hadn't been on duty, left to patrol the area with a small battalion of mercenaries.

Claude shook his head. "What for? They're gone. They came in the night and slithered away before anybody noticed them. This won't be like the tournament mishap, the dark and quiet is their arena. My room was as I left it; yours, I take it, as well. We won't find anything." 

"Why do you think it was them?" 

A shrug. But not loose and half-hearted. Lorenz watched the tight set of Claude's shoulders as he turned to look out the dark glass of the window into the night sky. 

"Who else? Call it a hunch. I know we disagree on matters of incrimination regarding attempts on our health." He waved a hand in the air, as if to lessen the weight of his words. "But that's the best I got at the moment."

Lorenz took a deep breath. "We ought to...discuss that." 

" _ That _ , huh?" Claude huffed out an amused breath. "I think it is a bit late in the day to discuss New Year's preparations." He approached the chair opposite Lorenz and dropped in it, the tension in his shoulders rolling off him both with his words and the swallow he took from his glass. After Lorenz bowed his head, conceding despite the heat rushing his face, Claude allowed an outright grin, added, "Surely what canapes will give Margrave Edmund indigestion can wait until morning." 

"Yes. Touché," Lorenz said, hiding the roll of eyes behind a measured sip of his drink, glass already half empty. Claude had generously filled both glasses, and the amber liquor burned, strong and potent down Lorenz's throat, with the tiniest sip. He left it on the table again, further away than the previous time. 

Claude, however, upended his own. Lorenz watched, disbelieving, reluctantly fascinated, as he licked every last drop that clung to his lips. "Both of us have had things put in our food or drink. You'd think shared experience would work in our favor, make us get along better." Claude traced a finger over the rim of his glass, eyes intent on Lorenz's face. 

"I was privy to none of those occasions," Lorenz reminded him. "Especially the one involving  _ my  _ drink."

A smile glazed over Claude's mouth, a stubborn stretch of the lips, forced. "Straight to the point. Yes." Claude regarded the glass in his hands. "It happened the day after our wedding. We weren’t on the best of terms and I could not risk you accusing me when all signs indeed pointed to me as the perpetrator. Would it make it any better that if it happened today, tomorrow, if it had happened a week ago or two, I'd tell you without delay?"

It would. It would lift something from Lorenz's shoulders, to know that Claude had come to regard him in a different light as time passed, as it had happened for him. That is, if Lorenz believed him. 

"But of course, you don't trust me," Claude said, as if Lorenz had spoken out loud. "Let me ask this then, do you simply mistrust me? In which case, hey, smart thinking, I wouldn't trust myself either." Something like laughter rushed out of him in a hollow breath. "Or do you actually think I bear any ill will toward you?" To Lorenz's silence, he volunteered, "You mentioned I fill the palace with mercenaries, inveigle your friends—"

He couldn't help the wince. He had, in his sleepless nights, had no trouble recalling the abrupt words he had thrown at Claude in his moment of shock and anger and betrayal, but was not prepared to hear them confirmed as real, as something to which Claude had listened and given thought. 

"The sudden revelation of that night… It may have precipitated…" Lorenz cleared his throat. "I did mean what I said. Not about my friends— They are grown women capable of judgment, whom I cannot help be protective of, of course but…" His thoughts strayed to Lysithea and the conversation he needed to have with her. That, he pushed away for later. "What I do want is an explanation for the mercenaries." He added, "An honest explanation." 

"But didn’t I say I want to reach middle age?” Then, not looking at him but at the ceiling, “Is it perhaps a better reason that I wanted something to hold control over? I can’t rely on your soldiers." Claude dragged a hand down his face, scrubbed one side of his beard. "The thing is…" After a moment's hesitation, he reached for the bottle, poured an ample serving in his glass. And Lorenz's too, though it remained to be emptied. "The thing is," Claude continued after drinking, "I would never want to cause you to live distrusting the world around you like—that, so… Take this as my apology." Claude reached inside his jacket and slid a folded paper across the table. 

The sheet of paper was warm from its place against Claude's chest when Lorenz picked it up, straightened it out. Lorenz’s gaze fell on the document in his hands and he felt the air squeezed out of him, throat tight. “What is the meaning of— Why—” Lorenz stammered. 

“I have secrets—ones that don’t endanger your safety—just as you have yours.” Lorenz resisted the urge to look away at that—what did Claude know about  _ his  _ secrets? “Maybe we shouldn’t trust each other at all, but maybe we could believe that we both want the same things. I do believe that, you see, and so if you rip the contract apart and tell me to I will let the mercenaries go.”

What Lorenz touched with trembling fingers was indeed the real thing: the contract signed by the Captain’s hurried scrawl and Claude’s seal, the Riegan Crescent Moon stamped on the parchment. Even through the urge to look upon Claude’s open face and direct offering with skepticism and misgivings, the paper remained solid and real, fragile only if Lorenz so chose. That Claude had probably predicted Lorenz’s reaction and acted accordingly did not matter, all Lorenz could do was gape and drop the contract on the table as if burned. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Lorenz burst. “Not so long ago you thought I had been complicit to dousing you with sleeping powders!” He pushed the paper across the table as far from him as his arms allowed. “Yes, I am not as gullible as you think. There's more than one reason I had to discover about the cook’s offense from Lady Judith, instead of you. Deny it, now.” When Claude didn’t, he continued, “Do I take it do you no longer think me capable of acting out of animosity?”

“As I mentioned,” Claude replied, “I think we can work together to achieve great things, for the future of the Alliance.” Cocking his head he raised one eyebrow. “I find it safe to assume you wouldn’t push me out a window to gather power for yourself. If I keep Leonie’s mercenaries around is to find whoever put poison in your wine and facilitated the cook with drugs. Whoever locked us in the council chambers for Goddess knows what reason.”

"This is merely a document. Another can be replicated, signed again," Lorenz said, narrowing his eyes.

Claude showed him the palms of his hands. "If you believe I would do that, tear the parchment. The mercs  _ will  _ go home." And after a tense pause, "But if you don't, then know that they're yours as they're mine, they will work to catch whoever is commanding the Agarthans." A chuckle. “Consider them a belated wedding gift. How generous of your husband.” 

Lorenz rolled his eyes. “Yes. Well.” He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, searching for words. He hadn't expected Claude to offer him his band of mercenaries, the option to leave him unguarded before this court he suspected so much, not when Lorenz already held his trusted retainer's fate in his hands, even if he would never reveal Cyril's origins to a court hungry for scandal. Another offer, then, this one: a chance to work together with Claude to discover who bore them ill will, whether it was the same group of people or not. “You continue what you are doing." He nodded toward the contract, the action not quite as smooth as he would have liked, almost a staggering twitch of the rigid muscles of his neck, willing Claude to take it back and put it out of sight. "I would rather not be locked up in a room with you ever again.”

Huffing out a breath, Claude acquiesced and returned the contract to his pocket—and as he did, with hands steady and a loose grip, Lorenz’s eyes remained fixed on his face, so that he could see his visage alter. It did not, or if it did, Lorenz yet knew not how to spot the changes. 

But after all, as Claude had said, Lorenz had secrets as well. 

“You were quick on your feet, back there,” Claude said, with an appreciative curl of the lips. 

It was hard not to perceive that comment as a compliment, but Lorenz persisted. “One does learn something in Faerghus Sorcery School.”

“Apparently.” 

—

The liquor Lorenz had steadfastly endeavored to avoid ended up washed down his throat in more quantity that could be either wise or proper. But Claude had pointed out his still-full glass and it seemed neither of them had been eager to try to sleep after the recent events, despite the armed soldiers now on guard. 

So as Lorenz finished the first glass of many to come, he found himself asking, tongue already partially loosened, “Any progress with the cook?”

“Yes, actually,” Claude said. He had drunk more than Lorenz, but his hands were steady around the bottle as he poured drink after drink, eyes bright and words measured. Though he proved slightly more conversational than usual. Whether due to the liquor or their previous exchange, Lorenz could not say. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, which you’ve made no easy task, may I say. But the information you gave me was really useful.” And he went on to explain his discoveries: “The cook’s mistress you told me about is no longer working at Gloucester estate, but was hired around two months ago by a lesser duke, Acheron. If your calculations are correct, as I do not doubt, she is soon to give birth, so Acheron must have hired her knowing of her state, which means he is either a good soul…” And to Lorenz’s widening eyes and unbecoming, alcohol-induced snort: “That’s what I thought. I have Leonie handling it. She has quiet people, good to keep an eye on the cook’s mail—and his boss.”

“And then?” Lorenz said. 

“I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t appreciate being bribed. So I think we can be friendly and cordial to him and let his grudge against Acheron work on—” The next word stumbled on Claude’s tongue, reticent, to be spoken. And it could be the drink if it weren’t for the lucid glint in his eyes, “ _ —our _ behalf when the time comes.” 

“Friendly and cordial to the man who is drugging your food?”

“I only ate it that handful of times.” He waved one hand in the air. “And believe me, it wasn’t the worst thing, at least it was basically insipid. My cousins once put sand in my food for a week.”

Wrinkling his nose, Lorenz took one close look at him—noticing with harmless surprise the little tidbit of information about his childhood that Claude had chosen to share—and said, “Oh, Goddess. You still ate it?”

“I did, some of it,” Claude laughed now, Lorenz could not fathom how he must have reacted as a child to such a slight. “Couldn’t give them the pleasure of whining.”

As an only child, with only a couple of second cousins who he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen, Lorenz thought what Claude told close to scandalous, not the mere childish pranks one could expect—which Claude’s unconcerned tone seemed to nonetheless imply.

Lorenz said, aghast, “Surely your parents wouldn’t have allowed something like that to happen.”

“Oh, no, they were outraged, of course, after I got sick, but they always say that one should fight their own battles, and after I gave my lovely cousins a taste of their own, let’s say, medicine, they were reluctant to ever bother me again.” A shrug. “My father would have disliked any outcome that had me asking for help.” 

Maybe some would say Lorenz had lived a sheltered childhood—raised at home by himself, educated by handpicked tutors, the only child for his mother to dote on and his father to lay his expectations—but surely Claude hadn’t been as capable as he was now as a child? “I do not think that is true,” Lorenz said, emboldened by the rush of liquor, how many glasses had he drunk now? “Your friends and your family, you should be able to rely on them.” Would Claude think him spoilt? He had grown aware since his adolescence of Count Gloucester’s poor teaching methods—always at Lorenz’s back, ready to push out of the way Lorenz’s troubles but only because he was too impatient to wait for Lorenz to work on them on his own. But his mother’s different approach was stark in his mind when he spoke, lending an ear and her quick mind to him in times of strife—as menial as it could be that the spells he kept working on failed and he could not compare to the mastery of many at sorcery school unless he worked twice as hard. 

“I think that started an insatiable streak within me to learn what poisons were safe enough for an appropriate revenge,” Claude mused at grand, letting out an amused breath, convincing enough. 

After a pause, sidetracked by the change of tone and topic, Lorenz said, “I remain glad you promptly realized I had no doings with the sleeping powders, then.” He offered his glass, now empty, for a very unwise refill when Claude picked up the bottle. 

Claude tipped the bottle generously. “Oh, I only suspected you for a very short while,” he said after clearing his throat. “But it really isn’t your style, is it?” 

“I should hope not,” Lorenz said, feigning indignation. Very badly, as he could feel his lips stretching. 

“Not straitlaced, proper, noble Lord Gloucester,” Claude answered, dimple in his right cheek.

None of those things Lorenz felt could apply to him at the moment, halfway drunk at a completely unknown hour of the night. He found himself propping one elbow on the table to reach for the bottle and pour himself another glass—he remained as such after, shoulders sagging under the hours he had spent awake and the fading adrenaline of the evening. Yet he held no candle to Claude who, though not any drunker, slumped in his chair, dangling his glass from his fingers carelessly—he had broad hands, Lorenz knew, and became overly cognizant of the fact—legs stretched before him, one knee bent, in a very...masculine manner Lorenz could in his stupor deem confident instead of undistinguished. The trousers he wore today seemed tighter than usual, Lorenz kept having to look away from the discernible muscled line of the outside of his thigh. 

“I think we both had some serious misgivings about each other,” Lorenz said, after a gulp of alcohol had renewed the burn down his throat.

“Had, huh?” Claude straightened to properly return Lorenz’s gaze, lacing his fingers under his chin. Light pooled on the skin revealed beneath the loose collar of his shirt. “Does that mean I’m an upstanding citizen in your book now?” he drawled. 

“Let’s not be hasty,” said Lorenz, his voice entirely too breathy to pass as serious. His chest felt light and the laughter that accompanied his words effortless. 

Letting his head hang between his shoulders, Claude joined him in an unquenchable tipsy cackle. 

Then, after a third glass, “I still intend to find out what you’re plotting regarding the corn,” Lorenz said, now the words truly escaping him. 

But Claude seemed to appreciate the jab, regarding Lorenz with a slow sweep of his half-lidded eyes. “I may even tell you,” he hummed, words whirring, mixed with the warmth seeping from Lorenz’s stomach to the rest of his body and the light of the candles that whirled around them blinking at him from Claude’s earring and the muffled quality his head had acquired. 

It was the last sentence Lorenz remembered Claude speaking that night before he left for his chambers. 

— 

Although the events of that night were hazy at best in Lorenz’s mind, Claude, dropping a staggeringly high stack of documents on Lorenz’s desk a week after, remembered more than Lorenz would have given him credit for. Yes, he should stop underestimating him, it appeared. 

“And what is this?” Lorenz had said. 

Hand splayed on top of the pile: “Everything you can hope to know about corn. That is,” Claude added with a wolfish grin, “everything useful to our treasury’s benefit.”

As much as it plagued Lorenz with intense curiosity, the maize documents needed to wait. For before he could realize, the grand night was but a week away, Ferdinand arriving a sunny afternoon that presented itself perfect for tea in the gardens while his friend’s fiance lurked around the library in search of unique volumes. Ferdinand had always wanted to visit Derdriu to see the celebrations, and he had finally managed to convince Hubert to come with him, much to Lorenz's secret regret. He could not say much about his best friend's fiancé, not for lack of trying: Hubert was the most secretive man Lorenz knew—or so had he thought until his own wedding. But he made Ferdinand the 'happiest man in the world'. 

Because Lorenz was ready for the question, he could withhold the grimace. “And how is your marriage at present?” Ferdinand asked. 

Lorenz could sincerely say, “Progressing adequately,” at least, even if looking upon Ferdinand’s radiant face every time he mentioned Hubert nagged at something Lorenz did not want analyzed. Two months had passed, but only now Lorenz realized he would never marry someone whose sole mention could evoke such feelings within him—nobody whose face lit up when thinking of Lorenz. 

But Lorenz was happy for his friend, how could he not; Ferdinand’s presence and ready string of conversation soon pushed such somber thoughts aside. And fortunately—or not—Ferdinand had more questions with which to distract Lorenz. “Progressing adequately in a,” a bat of those long cow eyelashes, “satisfactory manner?” he asked, not subtly. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz tried to hiss, looking over his shoulder. But the gazebo and the area around it were empty, nobody to stop Ferdinand’s unquenchable curiosity. And despite the unwelcome inquiry, it so resembled some of their early adolescent conversations, though then the two of them had hidden behind teacups the nervous giggles and mighty blushes that betrayed their innocent inexperience. 

“I have eyes,” Ferdinand chided, widening said eyes with meaning. “And your husband has got plentiful...assets. Which you failed to mention in your letters.” 

“The only asset of which I am aware is his inability to have a serious conversation,” Lorenz retorted. 

“Oh,” Ferdinand said, “so it is you who does not have eyes.”

“Must be.” Lorenz took a long sip from his cup. 

Now Ferdinand’s eyes darted around, ensuring their privacy. Lorenz braced himself as Ferdinand leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. “Have you thought about taking a lover?” he asked in a lowered voice. 

“No!” Lorenz sputtered. In a strangled voice: “That would be most unbecoming for the leader of the Alliance.”

Ferdinand tutted, pursuing his lips. “But you said it is usual in cases of arranged marriages, did you not?” 

“Yes, but in cases of dukes or counts! Lesser nobles! A head of state is a completely different matter. The sheer scandal… I would rather avoid that, truth be told.” 

Not that there was anybody who Lorenz could see as a potential lover at the moment, even in the privacy of his mind. Not even Holst. After greeting him just the day before, when he had arrived from Goneril to celebrate the New Year in Derdriu, Lorenz had felt no echo of what once beat in his presence—which had in the first place been just remnant infatuation from his days as a boy watching his friend’s older brother, he had realized. 

Besides, Holst was far too forward and earnest for affairs. If he were to imagine someone as his secret suitor… Well. It would have to be someone who could conduct themselves in clandestinity. Silent and quick on their feet. Ready to jump through a window, perhaps, and avoid his attendants with ease. He knew nobody that met those requirements. 

Then Ferdinand said, “Now, that cannot be borne. You cannot simply accept celibacy for your whole life? Is that something you would wish?” 

And Lorenz had never been so glad to see Hubert rounding the corner of the gardens, walking their way, two books under his arm with which to intrude into their conversation. 

—

The date arrived. 

New Year in Faerghus was commemorated. This, he remembered from his year at the Sorcery school and the stories of his classmates there, who had told him about the lighting of candles at the family chapel before retiring to the dinner table and reaching for the hands of those closest, sharing not only an abundant, warm meal but the happiness of the year past and the hopes of the one still to come as well. Even at court, it was prioritized as a small ceremony, and few had the privilege of sharing it with the King. 

New Year in Adrestia was solemnized. Ferdinand had told him the stately affair used to bore him to tears as a child, when the adults would ignore the festive date and discuss matters of estate all the same, expecting the kids to listen in silence. Only after the meal ended with the typical and sophisticated dessert of pomegranates and cream that had made Lorenz's mouth water when his friend had described it, the party moved to the throne room and music played, but few danced. According to Ferdinand this had changed, and he had managed to wrestle the Empress and her Minister of the Household away from talk of work during dinner in the latest years. 

And New Year in the Alliance— It was celebrated; reveled; toasted. Derdriu filled with people. Every noble had an invitation sent and could enter the castle at any time of the evening to enjoy the food and drinks at the same time as the music and dancing, for servants slid across the room performing their own peculiar dance carrying trays of canapes and glasses in a swarm of activity and amidst the sounds of violins and flutes and pipes; drums and violas and tambourines. Lorenz had only spent one year away from Derdriu during this eve, due to a fever that had kept him from traveling—an ineffable tragedy to his teenage self, and to the Gloucester household who had had to bear his woe that night and the week that followed. His only regret as a child, one that chased him into adulthood, was the absence of his mother: after his twelfth birthday her illness had prevented her from coming to Derdriu even for the New Year. That first year he had offered to stay with her, aversed to leave her alone, but his father hadn't allowed him to stay: it was expected of the future head of the House to attend the celebration and show himself amongst his peers. 

It didn't feel like the New Year he remembered. Maybe it was due to his father's absence or his new situation and responsibilities. Even for someone who thrived on organizational hazards, the sheer amount of attention the task had demanded had left Lorenz tired even before the dancing began. But after he had said his speech, along with Claude, and he had not any more to do or plan or overlook, work was not over. 

“You have a neck today,” Claude had commented after the speech, causing Lorenz to curl one hand over the nape of his neck, currently exposed not only by his lower cut jacket and lack of cravat, but also by his hair held up and pinned to one side of his head. And then, “You take the right wing, I take the left?” Claude swiped an entire tray from the hands of an unsuspecting servant and stuffed his mouth with half of the hors d'œuvre in it, one after the other, as he surveyed their battlefield. 

Lorenz took one when offered. “Good plan,” he said after making sure the Minister of Justice currently stood in Claude’s side. He was not eager to talk about his father’s investigation, least of all with the person in charge of it. Claude gave the tray to a wide-eyed child who had been staring at it for some time, left him to use it as he saw fit, and strode in Duke Acheron’s direction. 

Lorenz turned toward his half of the room; decidedly the child and the weaponized tray were in Claude’s. 

Despite the division, the constant reminder in his mind to mingle, to talk to everyone he could, weighted heavy and unwelcome on his shoulders. He did not know how he would have managed alone. Everyone must have a good time, feel welcome. Duke Riegan had always assured so, at least before he fell into his cups when Godfrey would take over and excel at entertainment. As much as he would have liked a dance to forget about his responsibilities, he still hadn't talked to Margrave Edmund. He sighted him shooting glances his way while he spoke to Ferdinand, and had to regrettably cut their conversation short. 

“Wait,” Ferdinand said. He reached and Lorenz felt the soft pressure of his fingers on his hair. “That hairpin was crooked.” Ferdinand smiled wickedly. “Are those amethysts on silver? Very nice, dear friend.” 

“Indeed,” Hubert had drawled beside him. 

And Lorenz, after a grateful clasp on Ferdinand's arm, had excused himself. Their conversation had carried, “Shall we go shopping tomorrow, Hubert? I must get Lorenz to tell me where he bought such delicacies. Did you appreciate the silverwork?”

Lorenz made a mental note to tell him he would find no such hairpins in any storefront. They had been his mother’s before—he remembered the shape of the jewelry box where she had kept them, the resistance of the hinges as he peeked in, and the weight of her mother’s hands as she pinned them into his short hair for the very first time—and then a gift and his favorite piece of jewelry when he had turned eighteen. He wore them during New Year's Eve to feel her close to him. 

After Edmund, it came Faerghus’s ambassador, and Brigid’s, and the reporter they had invited to write a piece on the event for the current top-seller newspaper guild in Derdriu. He had Lorenz trapped in an interview that was starting to digress into politics Lorenz would strive to avoid when Lorenz saw the Minister of Justice crossing the line of Claude’s division. She walked in his direction, resolute. 

A man, broad back clad in verdant velvet, stepped in her way. 

Claude, he realized, with a rush of gratitude. He as well had not stopped since their arrival, agreeably entertaining guests in his own side. If raucous laughter resounded among the flutes and violins he could be sure to find Claude in the midst of it. Even those advisors who kept butting heads with him during meetings seemed delighted. About the party and the music and the canapes and the drinks. And about his husband. The abundant alcohol had probably helped, and the way in which Claude picked drinks from the trays as the servants passed by his side, exchanging half-empty glasses with filled-to-the-brim new ones, giving wine to those who had previously drunk mead, whiskey to those who had already indulged in vodka. 

And, finally, Lorenz found a moment's respite when Ferdinand led Hubert to the dance floor. This he must watch. He had spent little time with Ferdinand that night—which he intended to remediate as soon as possible—and he wouldn't miss Ferdinand's expertise for the world. Nor would he give up an opportunity to witness Hubert's skills for the first time. 

Ferdinand led, all practiced poise and natural grace, and the couple waltzed and slid across the dance floor with the masterful and unquestionable command of a ship parting the waters; with the smooth lightness of the summer breeze brushing the leaves of trees. Hubert knew how to hold his own, a stark figure in black that contrasting with Ferdinand's rouges and burgundies moved his body like it was part of his partner's. 

"They're pretty good." He tilted his head to find Claude by his side, watching with an appraising gaze and a quirked eyebrow, a flute of champagne dangling from his fingers.

On the dance floor 'pretty good' translated itself as a combination of flawless rises and falls, bodies almost hovering in the air seeming to barely brush the marble floor. Turning and stepping back and forth flowed from their feet like ink across a paper, their traces so fleetingly visible every witness could count themselves fortunate. It almost looked like the music was the one following them, the string instruments commandeering the tune in a familiar waltz from a famous opera. Ferdinand had probably charmed—that is, simply asked with those doe eyes, captivating more than one hopeless heart—the musicians into playing it, for it was one of his favorites. 

Lorenz hummed belatedly, agreeing, but was prevented from saying anything as the song finished and the crowds erupted into applause. Although more couples had populated the dance floor, all praise was directed at Ferdinand and Hubert, it was easy to tell. Lorenz looked for a moment longer, clapping as well, until Hubert leaned in to say something in Ferdinand's ear, brushing his hair away with a practiced gesture, thumb resting on his cheek, not necessarily private but obviously intimate, most of all coming from a man such as Hubert, whom Lorenz knew not to be fond of public affection. Lorenz had never seen him smiling in such a way before. 

He jerked his gaze away—found Claude's eyes on him.

“I don't think we should allow this,” said Claude. “Isn't this supposed to be  _ our _ show?”

“Nothing of the sort was ever implied,” Lorenz said, ignoring the competitiveness the words ignited. 

“Ah, so you do not care for a dance?”

A disbelieving breath. “With whom?” Nothing obligated the married leaders to dance, as it had during their regrettable engagement ball. Surely Claude did not intend to—

Claude’s smile swirled on his lips, almost in tune with the zills of the tambourines. 

Extending a hand, Claude slightly bowed his head, and beneath the furious light of countless candles his thick eyelashes projected a fleeting shadow on his cheeks. Some loose locks of hair fell forward. He pushed them back as he straightened, careless of dishevelment. All the same his hair remained the tousled arrangement he favored. Which suited him. 

As subtle as the gesture had been, Lorenz felt the people around them mute, hold their breaths to pay attention. Claude noticed and grimaced for a second. The expression startled Lorenz, for what reason could Claude have to ask for a dance other than acting for the court and doing their duties as hosts? 

_ Fun, _ his mind supplied, with a voice bearing an Adrestian accent.  _ When was the last time you had fun, dear friend?  _

But Claude recovered seamlessly, talked as if trying to convince him. Like Lorenz had now a choice in the matter. "I think we can do better than them. Don't tell me you don't want some friendly competition." 

Lorenz did. He realized this as his heart picked up a rhythm, resounding with the violins playing from the orchestra. 

He made himself say, "What are you planning?" Wariness rising within him like the unavoidable vibrations of the drums. 

"Only victory," Claude said, and his grin widened, and the flutes came into play. "Next song?" 

He couldn't say no. Nor did he want to, he realized with shock. And when Lorenz nodded in silence, Claude disappeared. 

—

The crowd swept aside for them. 

The herald announced their titles. 

They walked side by side—they knew they must get to the center of the ballroom floor, now empty when just before it was full of enjoyment. Lorenz noticed the hesitation of the other couples. But then out of a sudden, Holst started dragging Lysithea, quite literally, into the dance floor, and a determined Marianne was leading a surprised Hilda to take position close to the center where Lorenz and Claude would now not be completely alone. Lorenz took an easier breath. 

“I didn't mean to put you on the spot,” Claude was saying. “I just thought we could have fun? I know you haven’t had any since we married. For… obvious reasons.” Lorenz kept his eyes on their destination. But Claude left it at that. “And at first I thought that was just an inherent personality trait but I talked to Ferdinand—”

“You what,” Lorenz gritted out, not snapping around to confront his husband by a hair’s breadth. 

"And he said you like riding, which I was already aware of, you know.” From the corner of Lorenz’s eye, Claude seemed overly smug for such a simple deduction. “And since we haven’t had a day off in what feels like years, I thought dancing, which he mentioned you also enjoy—” Lorenz was going to strangle Ferdinand—“could be fun!” Claude concluded. 

“Truly? Bold claim after our history,” Lorenz said. 

They had stopped walking. Yet there was some delay with the orchestra, it seemed. Opposite each other, they talked, knowing the focus centered on them. 

“Ah,” Claude said. “Our engagement ball. Was it so bad?” 

“You danced with Hilda first.” Lorenz smiled like the topic sparked joy. 

“She looked bored. You looked, frankly, furious. Have you any idea how frightening you look when you narrow your eyes— Yes, just like that.” 

Holst bellowed somewhere to Lorenz’s left, as if on cue. Lysithea must have snapped at him. He always found her funny. 

“Would you prefer to dance with Holst?” Claude asked, startling Lorenz. He turned his gaze back on him. “I could arrange that.” 

“I— Holst— He is a terrible dancer,” Lorenz stammered, willing his face to cool. Claude was making sure Lorenz could read in his face exactly what his assumptions were—wrong assumptions. “What I mean is, you are my husband.” 

Claude hummed, thoughtful and discerning. But before his mischievous grin could translate into words, the director of the orchestra tapped his batons once, twice, to announce the imminent start of the music. 

"What are you doing?" Lorenz asked when Claude surrounded his wrists to lower the arms Lorenz had begun to raise to position himself. 

"Just do as I do,” Claude said. He held Lorenz’s wrists between their opposite bodies. 

“I am sure I do not want to,” Lorenz hissed. 

“Yes, I am sure of that as well,” he merrily agreed, letting go of Lorenz, still not stepping into the proper position for a waltz. 

Hands awkward at his sides, Lorenz said between his teeth, "The court is watching."

A sigh. "Isn't it always?" 

"I would request a little prudence," he said, cold in the face of Claude’s obtuseness. "If you are familiar with the word." 

"It appears I am not." A sorrowful shake of the head—betrayed by the inevitable gleam in his eyes, impossibly unrepentant. "If you hate it, I promise to consult with a philologist. Maybe Arthurio has a colleague," Claude said, and with that, hooked a finger on his collar to loosen his cravat and discarded it inside his jacket pocket. He took one step to his right and one forward, so that he stood next to Lorenz instead of in front of him, waving the fingers of his left hand for Lorenz to take: one more offer. 

Without Claude in front of him, Lorenz had an unobstructed view of the crowd gathered on the fringes of the dance floor, holding their breaths for the music. Hilda greeted him with a wave of her hand, and narrowing her eyes moved until she and Marianne stood in a position similar to Lorenz and Claude. By Lorenz’s side, Claude raised one hand to signal to somebody. Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Lorenz watched Holst and Lysithea do the same. And what could Lorenz do but raise his left arm to match Claude. Clasp his hand. 

"You're familiar with Fhaergus's circle dances?" Claude asked. 

"Yes," Lorenz said, still tight-lipped. 

"Good.”

The music began.

They were called circle dances because the steps of the dancers followed a perfect circumference that grew smaller and smaller as the couple, that stood side by side facing opposite directions, an arm length away, first hand in hand and then clasping forearms and shoulders, rotated—at intervals separating to turn, change the direction of their steps and offer the opposite hand—until they were locked together, unable to take one step more. The concept sounded much more exhilarating than the reality. Lorenz had already made the mistake of expecting a memorable experience once, during the Winter Solstice ball at Sorcery School, only to be disappointed by the slow tempo of the music, good for exchanging pleasantries while dancing but little else. 

Lorenz had found them then boring and confining, being limited to a constricting space instead of having the entire dance floor at one's disposal. 

The musicians, previously informed on the type of dance intended, didn't start with the violins, but the drums. Lorenz heard the gasps of the crowd at the sudden sound, and even his heart skipped a beat. Hands clasped, they started rotating as the needles of a clock, following the music. It gave Lorenz ample opportunity to observe the room; the crowds’ interest had caught and held still, their eyes following the figures of the servants carrying trays not as avid as before; now they were trained on their rulers. Only when the pipes and the flutes joined in and they had to separate to change ways did he realize how tight his grip on Claude had been. He endeavored to keep his grasp loose when they joined once again, now picking up speed—skipping instead of sliding over the floor.

"Why a dance from Faerghus?" Lorenz tilted his head sideways to meet his partner's eyes. 

"Who said this would be a dance from Faerghus?" 

Lorenz narrowed his eyes, but had to change position again, twirling to offer the opposite hand. While turning around he felt a tug on his hair. He would have to change his stylist, if this simple movement caused the careful foundation of pins holding up his hair by the side of his head to fall apart. 

“What else did Ferdinand tell you?” Lorenz asked, mellow. 

Somehow, Lorenz knew what Claude would say. 

“That you enjoy poetry. That sometimes you  _ write  _ poetry—”

“Alright, enough,” Lorenz coughed. He had nowhere to look away to. 

“I am no expert on poetry, but I do know my stories.”

This time, the pause in conversation that followed their parting and turning was one of anticipation. 

"There's this foreign legend," Claude said searching Lorenz's gaze again, "that tells the myth of how fire was created with a dance." They separated once more—another tug on his hair—fell back in place as the tambourines added briskness to their caper. "Two old gods danced for thirty days and thirty nights—a circle dance—and in the end between them bloomed the first speck. And they kept going for another moon until that became a roaring blaze." His eyes reflected the light as if there truly was a fire being born between them. 

Because this was not a circle dance from Faerghus. That became abundantly clear when they had to part again before Lorenz could say anything to Claude's tale and, upon rejoining, Claude's hand climbed to grasp his forearm, fingers digging into Lorenz's flesh through the clothes. 

"Keep up," was the last thing Claude said. 

And all sound was swallowed up, consumed and stunted by the renewed violas and tambourines and flutes, that climbed and accelerated, and allowed only when subduing for the occasional presence of the drums now relegated to the background, booming nonetheless, a merciless back and forth which Lorenz had to force his body to follow, grabbing Claude's forearm with bruising strength to match his speed. 

They could only look at each other, necks bent to the inside of their circle, amidst the spiraling and spinning, to find some sort of anchor in the blur around them; whenever they let go to change direction, which happened at shorter intervals each time, for a moment it seemed they would not find each other again. But they always did, Claude compensating Lorenz's unusual, but helpless in this unaccustomed dance and celerity, hesitation with supple alacrity and practiced spryness, his grip the only constant in the manufactured chaos, green eyes and a bright smile. His hand steadied Lorenz's waist here and there—but only until Lorenz’s training, the hours he had spent learning how to make his body lithe, his movements graceful, both on a dance floor and the battlefield, caught on, and the tentative tenacity with which he clawed to Claude to, as he’d said,  _ keep up,  _ was replaced by delighted excitement. And wounded pride, as he realized Claude had slowed their tempo for his sake, which Lorenz promptly remediated after checking the music allowed so. 

And Claude caught his eye, winked as his silver earring did under the candles. 

“This is, I must say, an improvement from our engagement ball,” Lorenz said, halfway to breathless. 

“But you led us in such an elegant waltz,” Claude protested. 

A timed turn interrupted them shortly. 

When they were side by side once again: “You kept stepping on my feet as a consequence,” Lorenz said, narrow-eyed. 

Claude gasped. “On accident! Most unfortunate accident.” Then, “Do not retaliate now or we will tumble to the floor.” 

“As tempting as it sounds, I will do my best to refrain,” Lorenz said, loftily. “Is that the reason you picked this dance, then?” And Claude bared the line of his throat, laughing. 

And another twirl. 

And soon, talking became impossible. 

Lorenz’s hair had been, for some time, falling loose on his shoulders, one strand at a time every time they turned around, and he saw now in the confusion the glinting of silver between Claude's fingers. One after the other, taking advantage of the moment they separated, Claude took the hairpins until Lorenz's hair waved behind him as he turned and cascaded over one shoulder, free, released from the restraints, pushed away from his face by the force and alacrity of their steps—and the musicians wielded their bows, brushed against the violins at last, which were soon coaxed into the mix. 

Back in Faerghus, he had thought the dance restricting. Here and now he could imagine nothing more unfettering, broad and boundless in their assigned, private space; something only they witnessed; only they were responsible for it. And Claude had talked about fire. He could believe in those gods, at this moment; here there would be no flames, but the journey of staring for too long at them until sight lost all focus. 

The frantic deliration continued, unmaking thoughts as well as speech, as well as the world around them. Hands crept upwards: forearm, elbow, shoulder; stepping so that their legs never collided, but brushed as they approached. Chest, opposite shoulder, and finally the hand further apart from their circle—so that both hands were now, for the first time, occupied at the same time; until their chests pressed together and the only thing Lorenz could have sworn to was his wild heartbeat, and Claude's, twin to his own. 

Deaf but for the music, blind but for a pair of green eyes. 

And then they separated one last time, and Lorenz did not find Claude's hand again. A crafty pull on his arm at the right moment and a cunning boot between his shoes and he was losing his balance right as the song reached a crescendo and abruptly ended. 

Upon reopening his eyes, he found himself suspended; Claude above him with a mad, all-encompassing grin. 

When Claude pulled to straighten him, Lorenz breathed for the first time in what seemed a long, long while. He found himself brought forward, had to balance himself with his hands on Claude’s shoulders, and though they had danced much closer just seconds ago, now the proximity conveyed more: Claude’s scent drifted to surround Lorenz, as if wafting from his parted collar, from the damp skin of the hollow of his throat, between his collarbones. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, selfsame as Lorenz’s, winded the both of them, worryingly so, until he realized that half the breaths they took left them in gulping gasps of laughter. 

They had to sober up when around them applause erupted. Maybe it had, for some time now, except that to perceive it Lorenz had to blink as if exiting a trance, a process made harder by looking at Claude who returned his complicit gaze, whose teeth were very white under the gleaming lights, his skin flushed. And the ballroom floor was full of people laughing and clapping, more couples than Lorenz remembered having seen at the start of the dance. Lorenz could not say at which point they had joined them. 

And the two of them were bowing, accepting with grace the ovation with hands still clasped. 

And Claude looked up, faced Lorenz and cradled his hand in his, kept it open and waiting with a thumb pressed to Lorenz's fingers. He brought the fist hanging by his side between them. Opened it to reveal silver and amethysts that changed hands in silence. Only now did Lorenz remember the state of his hair, felt it brushing soft against his cheeks. Lorenz did not know what would come out of his mouth if he parted his lips. 

“Prudence?” Claude shot back softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, quiet because around them the world still roared. Or because only Lorenz was meant to hear. Either way, for Lorenz’s ears alone. Not the court. 

Lorenz did not know what would come out of his mouth if he parted his lips, yet they were parting around a breath, around more than that—

A hand clasping his shoulder brought Lorenz out of his reverie. “Felicitations!” Ferdinand boomed beside them, appeared from somewhere, dislodging the two of them. Lorenz closed his hand around the hairpins without even checking if they were all there, rushed them inside his pocket lest he dropped them, which he had come dangerously close to doing. “I consider myself expert of the ballroom,” Ferdinand was saying, “and yet that indubitably exceeded any expectations I could have had, even for your known mastery, my friend!” He was flushed, as if he too, had jumped in the dancing. He probably had. Around them the crowd continued to clamor with mirth and elation. 

Suddenly Holst was there too, slapping backs, and Lysithea, her anger forgotten for the moment. And Hilda had her arm hooked around Claude’s neck, as Marianne laughed beside them. 

That was how Lorenz entered the New Year, thinking this contentment would last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the slow update!! Life has been really busy lately, but I don't plan to drop this any time soon, though updates may be more irregular than in the beginning.  
> As always thanks for reading, hope you liked it! :)


	8. VIII

“Your choice of dance would have gone horribly wrong had I not known the steps needed to conduct a circle dance,” Lorenz said without raising his eyes from his reading. 

It was breakfast, and a full day had passed since New Year’s Eve. Most of the court had, very sensibly, not left their quarters the day before, using the time to rest and recover after the celebrations, which had extended into the quiet hours of the morning with the unassuming ease of spilled water, carrying Lorenz, and most of the guests, through more dancing and laughter until the sun had bathed soft orange the clear windows of the hall. 

Lorenz too had indulged in a lazy day: read in bed, barely making a dent on the pile of books on his bedside table, and met with Ferdinand during the evening. He did not lay his eyes on Claude until the next morning, as the man in question sat beside him during breakfast at the still mostly empty dining hall, at once stealing a toast from Lorenz’s tray and saying, “Who is Raphael Kirsten?” peeking into the documents Lorenz had in front of him. 

Lorenz pushed the tray in his direction to settle it between the two of them, in the position now customary during their joint meals. “I cannot help but wonder where you learned to dance like that.” 

Claude’s hands reached for the glass cruet of olive oil, steadily painted a tremulous line with it over the bread before bathing the toast with a generous serving of sugar. And all the while, his eyes never strayed from the papers. “Ah, he is petitioning for a position as a knight here at the palace.” Lorenz, who’d been spreading cherry preserve on his bread, looked curious as Claude licked sugar from his lip. “And why are  _ you  _ going over his dossier? Did we let go of the Knight Commander?” 

“We did not.” Lorenz pushed the dossier away. “It is rare to see you at breakfast.” 

“Is it?” Claude returned, busy slicing a second toast in half. “Not as rare as a knight with no background to speak of.” 

“Kirsten— Oh.” Lorenz accepted the half of Claude’s toast that Claude pushed into his hands. In the next moment Claude was reaching for the coffee just arrived from the kitchens. “Thank you,” Lorenz said. It did taste as good as it’d looked, despite its simplicity. “Kirsten shows great prowess,” he resumed, “and interest in the job.” 

“Kirsten, Kirsten. Where have I— Ah. Really?” Now for the first time Claude stopped his incessant moving, cocking his head to look at Lorenz with querying brows. 

“I am sure I do not know what you refer to,” Lorenz said. 

“Let’s see.” Claude pushed his chair away from the table, only enough to turn it and face Lorenz better, searching gaze free to roam unimpeded.“Isn’t he the son of the merchants who were accompanying Godfrey when he died? He wanted their opinion on some artwork he was to buy from your father. And, of course, they died when the beast attacked.” And when Lorenz did not deny the truth, “I thought you above showing preference. Why would you go to such lengths for a stranger? And a commoner to boot?" But as he finished speaking he was shaking his head, at himself, it appeared, as if his own words brought to the surface the edge of some thread of knowledge only now revealed, or given proper attention. "Wait, nevermind.” He pressed his lips together. And then again after a soft breath escaped him—laughter, quiet and almost incredulous. Claude said, “You would,” his voice soft and quiet. 

Lorenz cleared his throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” And averted his eyes to smooth a hand over Kirsten’s dossier. “It is a matter of responsibility. Gloucester should have been safe for them to travel through. It is only proper that I try to compensate their family.”

“Mm, exactly.” For a moment longer Lorenz felt the weight of those eyes on his face, but when he finally looked up Claude had returned to his breakfast, saying, “I assumed you’d have no trouble with the dance.”

It took a breath for Lorenz to gather where Claude had pulled the threads of the conversation to this time. “Assumed.” He gave Claude a sideways glance with hooded eyes. 

“Fine. I knew _.  _ You spent a year at the sorcery school.”

“Faerghus’s circle dances are not like that,” Lorenz needlessly pointed out. 

Claude gasped. “Do not let the King of Faerghus hear you calling him boring.” 

“I did not—”

But with a brief touch of his fingers to the back of Lorenz’s hand, Claude interrupted him. He subtly jerked his head. “Look who is gracing us with his presence.” 

“That is why you rose early,” Lorenz sighed. “You intend to talk to him now?”

“No. Not now. Wouldn’t want him inhaling a crepe, he only owes us money, not his life.” 

Nodding, Lorenz picked up his teacup. “I will bring the incriminating documents to the council room after, then. It should be empty.”

Before Lorenz finished his tea, Claude mirrored his action and raised his own cup, saying, “You want to do the talking?”

“Oh, no need,” Lorenz answered. “It is your work, after all. You can do all the accusing.” 

And when Claude brought his hand forward to clink their cups together, Lorenz rolled his eyes, mildly amused despite himself.

“You got it,” Claude said, grinning, and finished his coffee. 

It was at long last the culmination of Claude’s deep dive into the world of corn. Lorenz had read the documents, had had to push away the first urge within him to discard Claude’s claims as false and paranoid, to trust the structure he had been taught to trust: the careful foundation that assured the honesty behind the words of a noble. That assured honesty and not egotism and greed, not falseness and evasion. Especially when it came to a noble of his father’s generation, who was old blood, who commanded respect and self-possession wherever he went with the power to back him up. 

But the disbelief had had no rightful place: Claude had put together a faultless case against the man who had claimed his lands had produced barely half of their usual harvest due to the inclement weather, the man who had thus paid barely half of what he was used to paying in taxes to Derdriu’s coffers. And the anger and shame that had followed the realization of how Lorenz had let himself be fooled soon gave way to the appropriate outlet of determination. 

After breakfast, Lorenz waited in the council room, hands laced together on the table.  “Margrave Edmund,” Lorenz said to the man entering the room prompted by Claude, “please sit.”

Frown splitting his heavy brows apart, Margrave Edmund did as he was bid. Seeing Lorenz already there waiting didn’t smooth his reticency over. Because Lorenz may have been Count Gloucester’s son, and the ruler Edmund had chosen to back, but Lorenz had also in the last weeks shown close council with Claude, who he’d been told to distrust and scorn, like that would improve their joint ruling instead of weakening, cracks appearing, the foundation of power and politics sustaining Leicester. 

And Edmund had taken advantage of those cracks first appeared during the days when Lorenz could barely tolerate Claude’s presence. 

Lorenz let Claude speak. Claude had been the one to notice, to pour over books and research. The fact he’d done it by himself—instead of confiding in Lorenz, or requesting a proper investigation be conducted—could grate, might nettle, if one thought him secretive and aloof. If one did not realize that Claude, who had let Lorenz process the findings without pushing, was simply used to acting on his own, and habits, which were engraved in people since birth, were the hardest thing to change.

“I must say I fail to see where this accusation is coming from,” Margrave Edmund was saying to Claude, stalling without anything to give himself away, ever the orator, the man who had raised his house to power. 

And Claude, ever the willing needler, was directing every ounce of his undeterred focus Edmund’s way, and patiently saying, “Do you, now? Guess we should have brought our friend Arthurius, huh, Lorenz?”

“I think the margrave will prefer this be explained within the hours of the morning,” said Lorenz. 

“Then he must apply himself,” said Claude with a merry smile. “Here it is again.” 

And this time, each fact Claude mentioned was accompanied by a document slid over the smooth mahogany surface of the table into Edmund’s hands, receptive at first until clenched into fists. Lorenz, who had wanted to relegate himself to the position of observer, soon stopped cataloging every change in the margrave that signaled the fact Claude was cornering him—the flushing jowls of his cheeks, the sweat-stained brow, the widening nostrils. Instead, Lorenz found his eyes drawn to the man now commanding the conversation, not with utilitarian strength and raised voice that would have proven useless in this situation, or even a politician’s sweetened lies, but with the combination of inviting deliberation and swift mind that had outmaneuvered every adviser too quick to raise objections against Claude the past months and that now, backed by sharp truth after sharp truth, overpowered Leicester’s renowned orator. 

“You thought a new government would not realize, you thought to take advantage of change. Maybe you thought the rulers unfit of your coin. And hey, I applaud your confidence, but you’ve made a mistake,” Claude was saying, voice stripped of everything but intent. Lorenz could look nowhere else. To the point, Claude said, “You say the drought last summer ruined the crops of your agronomists, but the kind of corn they farm, according to these reports,  _ thrives  _ in summer and needs not constant water to grow. In fact Leicester suffered a drought similar to this one, just five years ago, and your income remained as it had the year before and as it did the year after.” Claude sent a folder in Edmund’s direction before the man could protest. “In fact this drought only ruined crops such as rice, which are known to require abundant water, and which is maybe what you should have chosen to have your farmers grow if you planned to evade taxes.” And another paper slid over the table. 

Lorenz valued hard work, in the sense that he had been taught to admire and strive to imitate those who applied themselves, achieve his goals forsaking laziness. And Lorenz valued competence, in the sense that, as any person with eyes, he found it appealing. He had witnessed Claude’s competence before, as he had witnessed his confidence, but then Lorenz had usually been a step behind, or in disagreement with Claude’s defiance—he still remembered their irritating clash regarding the reinforcement of Fódlan’s Locket. Now he could sit, and hear, and watch—as he had never allowed himself to watch before. The sun permitted by the drawn curtains fell across his face, highlighting on his face the stern set of the jaw, unusual, like the feeling in Lorenz’s chest. Underlined there too, the wicked glint in his eyes—Claude had enjoyed the chase, and he was enjoying putting the margrave in his place. And this Lorenz had expected, and this Lorenz was, for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away from. 

Then it was done: Edmund sidestepped, Claude counterattacked. Lorenz took the glass of water to his lips to do something with his hands and gather his bearings, because they had agreed Lorenz would speak the last part. “Edmund will never accept an olive branch from me,” Claude had said. 

So Lorenz cleared his throat, said, “Margrave Edmund, you have served the Alliance for years without any antagonism. We consider now it should not start. We understand this has been a moment’s weakness and expect compensation for the money you owe the treasury, but will not pursue further justice.” He said, “Not if it does not happen again.” 

It had been Claude’s idea. Lorenz had listened to him speak the solution Lorenz himself would have offered. Neither of them had wanted to strip the House of Edmund of their possessions, or take their lands, or expel them from the Roundtable. Things were already unstable enough. “After all, we,” Claude had said, using the plural since the beginning, like Lorenz had contributed to the discovery of Edmund’s scheme, “caught this in time, before any real damage could be done.”

When Edmund left, after signing the document Claude had redacted which stated Edmund’s actions, Lorenz saw in the margrave reflected part of his own feelings. Not the shame-faced anger, but the daze permeating Edmund’s movements as he rose and made for the door, like a man walking where he expected to find solid ground and instead discovered quicksands. It took Lorenz a moment to blink himself out of his stupor. 

“That went well,” said Claude, immune to his own effects. He didn’t sound hoarse. He should have sounded hoarse, after all the talking he’d done. He looked fresh, ready for another round, proud without any egotistic arrogance, accomplished, and when he grinned, Lorenz could not stop the breath of bewildered laughter that left his lips. 

“You do realize we are going to disagree about what to do with this new income?” That earned Lorenz Claude’s amusement. 

“That's my favorite part.” 

—

The beginning of the year was a time for departures; celebrations over, friends returning to their homes. Ferdinand and Hubert left on horseback before a week passed, duty calling them back to Enbarr. The next would be Lysithea, sometime next week, and even Lady Judith had announced her incoming absence from court for a few days. 

Lorenz had decided to accompany them to the city gates. Ferdinand still had that knowing smile from the night of the ball which reminded Lorenz all over again of tambourines and dizzying candlelights and breathless dancing, no matter Lorenz’s endeavors to change the subject. 

Because they planned to stop along the way, they had indulged in a lazy departure and eaten one last lunch at court. Instead of the busy coil of crowds from the early hours of the morning the city streets gathered but a couple of children playing after lunch and the calmer merchants of the afternoon hours. Cashmere appreciated the gentle near-emptiness. As they traversed past the archway leading to the city square—a halfway point of their trip to the gates—Ferdinand said, “I meant to ask, are you still in the lookout for information regarding Claude? You used to lament in your letters how little you knew of him, but maybe some recent  _ developments—”  _ Hubert, by Ferdinand’s other side, coughed unsubtly, “—have changed your mind.”

Lorenz’s first impulse was to deny any such thing as development existed, and say, though he had stopped sending his spies in a wild chase around Leicester for details of Claude’s previous life a while ago, “Of course I still want information! I don’t know what ideas you get in that head of yours.” And, “I know of him as much as I ever did at first, which is to say absolutely nothing,” but as he said it he realized the unintended dishonesty of his words. Like a river fuller after winter, now Lorenz carried within him certain knowledge about his husband, but insubstantial at best, a single drop to the massive ocean. Lorenz’s mind supplied, unbidden, the shape of Claude’s grip as he made Lorenz spin, the curl of his lips when he was having fun, the distant look in his eyes when he was too late to shutter his countenance against some feeling coiling deep inside. Lorenz knew the shape of his apologies, the weight of a signed contract; how entangled it all was with the weak flame of trust that Lorenz had failed to smothered once and for all. Lorenz feared the moment when he wouldn’t be able to extinguish it at all. 

Ferdinand said, “I ask because Dorothea, you remember her, I introduced you some time ago? Well, Dorothea is doing a tour. More than a tour, if you catch my meaning.” 

It was Hubert saying, “Ferdinand, not here,” in his low voice that set Lorenz’s mind in motion. Lorenz remembered Hubert having agents in the Mittelfrank Opera Company. They took advantage of the tours and the nobility they performed for to gather all kinds of information. He doubted this would be useful to him, but still accepted Ferdinand’s offering with gratitude, mind halfway elsewhere as Ferdinand and Hubert started talking about the company’s route and how Dorothea claimed they had almost gotten around performing past Fódlan’s borders, if only their petition went through with this monarch and that one. Who didn’t love a flawless foreign performance. 

“I look forward to your letters even more than before, my friend,” was the last thing Ferdinand said as Lorenz clasped his hand in farewell at the gates. 

Lorenz stayed until the dust the two of them and their entourage raised along the road west settled, and they were gone. 

To assuage the melancholy that Ferdinand’s leaving caused, Lorenz used the rest of the afternoon to do some shopping. Nothing excessive. Just some trinkets to send home to his mother in his next letter—a couple of silk slippers for the warmer weather just around the corner, a small figurine as beautiful as it was delicate, of a doe daintily carved in glass, that caught and reflected the light, making it swirl. Lorenz would have kept for himself if his mother hadn’t had a personal fascination for that particular animal. He returned to the palace sometime before dinner, just as the evening replaced the clear rays of sun with softer, matte colors, planning to look for Lysithea to check how her investigation was going. He didn't need to strain himself: he spotted her rounding the corner of the courtyard in the direction of the gardens. In the time it took him to dismount and pass the reins to a stablehand she had disappeared already. Lorenz quickened his gait, entering the gardens and following the established path and as he finally spotted ahead her white hair bathed in a warm halo of light from the lit torches, and was about to call out—

Lorenz gasped as a hand closed around his arm and pulled him off the path into a secondary trail, unpaved, among two tall bushes of flowers that hid it from the view of those ahead. 

"Don't," a familiar voice said, and Lorenz narrowed his eyes as he found himself nose to nose with Claude. 

"What are you doing?" Lorenz jerked away, more from surprise than anything else. He did not quite stumble into the shrub behind him only because Claude's hand shot out to balance him, gripping his arm again. 

But Claude, once he had made sure Lorenz's limbs weren't inelegantly flailing around him, had turned his back on Lorenz to cock his head around the bushes and peek into the path. 

A foreboding feeling washed over Lorenz, something that by now he knew to relate to Claude's antics. 

"What,"repeated Lorenz, "are you doing?"

Without looking at him, Claude waved one hand, beckoning Lorenz forward. Lorenz, who tried not to indulge in sighs, allowed a long one at present, and steeling himself moved to discover what motivated Claude's—not necessarily weirder than usual—behavior. 

As he peeked over Claude's shoulder, all he saw was Lysithea, halted and bent at the waist to pick a forget-me-not, and by her side—

"Oh, Goddess." 

"Right?" Lorenz could hear the grin in Claude's voice. 

"Are you spying on your retainer?" Lorenz asked, quite unnecessarily.

"I'm not _spying_ on Cyril," Claude scoffed. "It is mere happenstance that I found myself taking a stroll through the gardens when I saw the two of them from afar, and instead of interrupting them I'm—"

"Spying on them."

"Making sure nobody else interrupts them. It's the only day Cyril's not on duty before Lysithea leaves, and he refuses to take any more rest days." 

"I will not be a part of this," Lorenz said, just as Lysithea and Cyril resumed their slow tread, vanishing behind a bent of the path to the right. 

Claude, already walking towards them as to not lose the couple from sight, turned around without stopping, walked backward a few steps as he said, "Suit yourself, but don't ask me later to tell you what happened."

Preposterous. As if. For weeks, Lysithea had turned up her nose at him whenever he tried to talk to her until at last she had accepted the apology for his rushed words regarding her relationship with Cyril. A blooming courtship between a noble lady and a soldier was not what he would have wished for a friend—it would be hard, met with contempt—but Lorenz would support Lysithea's choices, he'd assured her so. The last thing Lorenz wanted now was to be caught following her around, like a meddling parent. She'd undoubtedly leave Derdriu without even saying goodbye. So no, Lorenz was not going to let Claude drag him along, Lysithea was an adult and capable of handling herself, and the astounding breach of privacy, truly, Lorenz could not condone. 

"'Tell you what happened'?" Lorenz had to pick up the pace to reach Claude, whose long strides had put him already close to the forget-me-nots. "What is the meaning of those words? What exactly are you expecting to happen?" hissed Lorenz. "I hope Cyril knows Lysithea is a lady and that there are rules to courting which—"

What happened was, all, Claude's spectacular fault. 

If he hadn't  _ stopped,  _ dead in his tracks, in the middle of the path once he'd rounded the corner, Lorenz would have never knocked into him, making Claude stumble, boots skidding over the flagstones causing, in the quiet of the evening, far too much noise. 

At that moment Lorenz froze like a hare in front of a hunting dog, but of course Claude jumped into action. As Lysithea said, "Did you hear something?" already turning her head, Claude pushed Lorenz off the path and followed. 

This time they didn't have the luck of finding another off-trail for the more adventurous courtiers to traipse around that would hide them from sight. This time the only nook available was that between the lush bush of roses—overgrown to reach and thankfully cover Lorenz’s considerable height—and the wall of the battlements. A narrow place where only the gardener would willingly squeeze through (because it was his job) to tend to the shrubbery, perfect in breadth for a child to hide from his playmates or a lapdog—certainly not the broader hunting breeds—to nap in the cool shadow. 

Two grown men could fit in this way: Claude pressed Lorenz against the plastered wall and himself against Lorenz.

They soon realized, judging by the sound of her steps, that Lysithea had doubled back to investigate the noise, and that, loudly, incriminatingly, the rosebush whose space they were invading moved every time they did. It forced Claude to keep very still and very near Lorenz; chest to chest, legs slotted awkwardly together. Claude’s body was a warm, solid line and his waist, where Lorenz’s hands had fallen without his command, sturdy and moving with the tune of his chest as he breathed. Lorenz jerked his hands away, pressing his fists to the wall behind, steeling himself to withstand Claude’s hair as it brushed his cheek, soft, smelling of something soothing and sandalwood. 

“It must have been a cat,” Cyril’s voice came, approaching also. 

Every inch of Lorenz’s body felt coiled, tense, unready yet resigned to being found as two sets of steps came nearer and nearer. And he could already picture Lysithea’s righteous rage and Goddess, would she be capable of going a full year without talking to him? Without answering his letters? Lorenz feared he would be unable to meet Cyril’s eyes from this moment forward if the young, earnest soldier found him like this. 

And the steps kept coming nearer and nearer—and stopped, as Cyril, out of a sudden, said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you,” words coming out rushed, like at long last water had overflowed the goblet. 

At the same time, Claude and Lorenz let out a long, silent, breath of relief. 

Something to which they were blind was happening, just a few feet away. It preceded Lysithea’s delightfully shocked words, “You kept it all this time?” 

The gardens, with the dancing haloed light of the torches swaying with the gentle evening breeze, with the diffident perfume of the night time flowers blooming and the private paths open to the stars overhead, were the chosen place of countless nobles to profess their affections. It wasn’t rare to bump into a couple during their walk, as one gave the other a token of their affection, especially if it happened during daytime. To Cyril and Lysithea’s soft whispers, however, there were no witnesses. Not even Lorenz could hear what they were saying now; they had either resumed their walk and moved further, though still close enough for their murmured voices to carry, or, more likely, they spoke with heads bent close together. 

Nor did Lorenz want to hear them. He already felt like an awful intruder. 

And even if he had wanted to spy on them, he found now that they were safe from discovery his attention completely drawn away, beyond his control and against his wishes. Because with his hands braced against the wall on both sides of Lorenz’s head, Claude had leaned in to whisper to the shell of Lorenz’s ear the story of an attack, a handkerchief stained in blood and a fateful encounter months ago, two young people coming to know each other. 

Claude had this habit of closing the distance between them during meals or audiences to speak privately to Lorenz, some comments more entertaining than others, not all of them useful. Only at that moment, beneath the star-scattered sky, hidden by the scent of roses in the night, had Lorenz to steel himself against the pool of that warm breath over his skin; the shudder building at the base of his spine locked in place by sheer force of will and a tensing of the muscles. 

“I...didn’t know that,” Lorenz managed to whisper to the waiting silence. 

“I thought you’d disapprove.”

“I may think it inadvisable.” His throat was very dry. “But I suppose there are worse things that young love.”

It must have been the amorous atmosphere, Lorenz strived to tell himself. Or even perhaps that needling comment of Ferdinand’s about development and lovers. It must have been something external to Lorenz that had caused in his head such a wild, senseless unease, because it made no sense that when Claude leaned back to look at Lorenz, only as far as the rosebush pressing behind him allowed, it was his lips Lorenz found himself looking. 

It happened for the briefest of seconds, and after, Lorenz lifted his gaze, conscious of the blush the heat in his face must paint across his cheeks. They were looking at each other, for once unwitnessed; for once themselves, not part of a court. Alone, they didn't do much of that, staring—or touching. 

The arch lips parted around a half-breath, the gentle breeze teasing a loose curl on Claude’s forehead that he had no way of pushing back with his hands crowding Lorenz against the wall; he was the stranger whom Lorenz had married no longer, was he? Nor the man putting on a charming smile to dazzle ambassadors; talking about Cyril and Lysithea had brought something unguarded to the soft edge of his smile. 

What did they look like, he wondered, from atop the battlements? The leaders of Leicester hidden from view, embraced during a moonlight tryst in the gardens before dinnertime? They were certainly close enough to lead astray even the most well-intentioned minds. First, shame burned in Lorenz. To be gawked upon in this compromising situation,  _ in public,  _ and have the staff and then the court speculate and condemn, it filled him with mortification. But looking into Claude’s eyes glowing dark in the low light—this was his husband, Lorenz realized, belatedly, yet all at once; an awareness that stole the air from his lungs. Others already speculated about them, and gossiped. Others already assumed they had… The unacceptable suddenly made licit, not for that did it become any less of a conjuration of the gossipmonger. Only politics joined them. Even if in the eyes of the Goddess they had every right to give to each other what they willed, theirs was not such a marriage, and even if shame burned in Lorenz no longer and heat still coiled tightly beneath his skin, furrowing a well beneath his ribcage, it did not mean—

Lorenz felt the single, violent plunge of his heart as Claude brushed his fingers across his hair, touch fleeting and softer than Lorenz would have ever imagined it being. If the solid wall of bricks mortared and stacked behind him hadn’t been there, Lorenz did not know what he would have done—if he’d have flinched away, or fled; but it was, and he didn’t. And—

Claude’s hand moved away. His eyes broke contact. When Lorenz brought focus to his gaze again he found himself staring at a leaf held between Claude’s fingers. Which he’d removed from Lorenz’s hair. Of course. 

As he let the leaf drop, “I think they’re gone now,” said Claude. 

Of course. 

Claude left their hidden corner first, and if he offered his hand and a secure grip to help Lorenz squeeze out without stumbling, if his hair was tousled and his skin bathed in moonlight, if Lorenz suppressed a wince as the breeze cooled every inch of skin that had warmth pressed to Claude’s body, still Claude was blind to the moment it took Lorenz to return to the gardens as they had existed before; still Lorenz walked by his side, a gap between them, until they entered the palace. There Lorenz made his excuses to leave for his chambers, instead of accompanying Claude to the dining hall where dinner awaited. 

—

“How are...things, with Cyril?” 

The morning two days before Lysithea left was a bright one.The stroll around the market square bustling with early shoppers and crowds enjoying the good weather had agreed with her. Her face glowed, well-rested and bright under the sun before noon as they entered the palace gates, the packages loading both their arms the proof of a successful trip. Lysithea had wanted to buy some things before she returned home—merchants visited Ordelia territory quite frequently, but one did not find the variety of the capital elsewhere—and Lorenz was only too happy to help. He had enjoyed stretching his legs. He had also enjoyed, privately, time away from Claude. For the past few days, his thoughts had gone muddled whenever Claude leaned in close enough for Lorenz to find himself  _ expecting  _ the wave of his scent that would drift up to his nose, which he had learned to recognize. Which was normal, really—he also knew Hilda smelled like coconut or vanilla or something as likely sweet. Nothing out of the ordinary, to make use of the sense of smell he had been born with. 

Thus, a morning out: a good decision. There were only so many times he could claim to feel indisposed in order to work in his own room instead of in close proximity with Claude. 

“Why do you ask?” Lysithea said, narrow-eyed. 

She had mentioned nothing of Cyril since that night in the gardens. Not that Lorenz had expected her to, but still surely she’d want to tell a friend. He would have appreciated an older, more experienced friend to whom ask questions the first time he’d entered a courtship. Then again, the relationship she had with Cyril appeared different. Not the public courtship with rules and expectations but something particular; gentler, almost too delicate to intrude on. 

“No reason!” He tried a subtle chuckle, hoped it didn’t come out strangled under her suspicious glare. “Merely wondering.” 

Lysithea’s answer: “It’s none of your business.” 

“Yes, quite. Well.”

He hadn’t asked Claude if Cyril had told him anything about that night. It wasn’t his place, for one. And he hadn’t spoken much of anything to Claude at all, for two. A new year brought fresh new responsibilities and matters of state and concerns and reports to read and Lorenz had found himself busy and exhausted after endless meetings—had found himself even so unable to sleep once his head touched the pillow. He had lain in bed, tossing and turning without finding respite, too aware of the distance separating him from the room of the only other inhabitant of the second floor, at times too close—every noise in the night could be him—at times utterly insurmountable. And when he did manage to fall asleep he woke, from dreams of thick dark lashes and the gentle slope of an upper lip, even before the sun came out. Skin almost feverish as the last dregs of sleep formed the befuddled knowledge of what he had dreamt and he convinced himself it must not be so. 

There had been a lot of early morning rides the past week. 

Lorenz said, “How can you trust him, when you know so little of his life before he came here? You do not know of his family, or of his upbringing. And even if he speaks sometimes of his past, how can you ascertain whether it is the truth that he speaks, without any solid proof, without a noble background to confirm—”

“Are we still talking about Cyril?” Her lips curved in a little smile. 

“Most certainly we are!” Lorenz busied himself rearranging the packages in his arms to assure they did not slip from his grip as they started climbing the stairs leading to the grand doors of the palace. And when Lysithea only looked at him with her head cocked, he clarified again, “We are talking about Cyril.” 

She seemed unconvinced, but just as Lorenz began to fear his pale skin would betray the heat in his face, she said, “I… don’t know why or how he came to serve Claude. But the things I know triumph those that I don’t.” 

Silence, as Lorenz processed her words, as the knights guarding the doors saluted them. The biggest of the two fumbled with his lance, and Lorenz recognized, under the helmet, Raphael Kirsten, who'd only been working for less than a week. He nodded in his direction and smiled a greeting as they passed by his side. 

Lorenz said, “But if you do not understand why he does the work he is doing—”

“Do I need to understand why he does something, if what he does is the same thing I would? If we want the same things?” said Lysithea. “Nobody likes keeping secrets, it’s exhausting. If someone does they must have a reason. And if we  _ are _ still talking about Cyril, I’ll only say that I know he’s honest, he doesn’t like hiding things from me, and I know he’s patient and stubborn and loyal. He hated serving the Almyran army but would give his life for Claude.” 

They had stopped walking and now stood on top of the staircase, just beneath the arch of the heavy doors. Lorenz’s attendants were already stepping toward them to receive the packages they carried and take them away to their rooms. With his hands free, Lorenz checked the knot of his kerchief, the laces of his jacket, for a long time not meeting Lysithea’s eyes. The seed of suspicion and mistrust had sprouted within him at once after meeting Claude, nurtured by the rich soil of his failed ambitions, watered by the steady pour of entitlement with which he had grown up. But Lorenz would have never discovered Edmund’s fraud on his own, or joined as many courtiers in a merry dance during New Year’s Eve. Together they led the Alliance better than they would apart—Lorenz could have trust in that.

The problem was, without the veil of mistrust, the competence and the intelligence became all too apparent. As did the pleasing qualities of Claude’s symmetrical face, the broad-shouldered confidence. 

When his attendants retired, and they were standing alone in the entrance hall, Lysithea said, “You’ve courted with bigger fools—boring sons of dukes or counts who you knew everything about just because there was absolutely nothing to know about them past their names. No we are not still talking about Cyril.”

The sound of hastened footsteps climbing the marble entrance stairs interrupted Lorenz’s denial. Lorenz turned around in time to see Leonie reaching the first step, momentum carrying her further until she abruptly drew short in front of them. 

“Where’s Claude?” She struggled for breath. 

Lorenz had been taught to expect a certain degree of etiquette from servants and soldiers. And what he noticed first was this: the lack of propriety in Leonie’s breathy voice. It put Lorenz on his guard at once, and his eyes easily found the signs of emergency: the place where sweat matted her hair, the deliberate grip on the hilt of her sword. 

“Seeing Judith off,” he told her, and heard the careful semblance of calm in his voice. He closed the gap separating them in two strides. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Somebody set fire to his rooms. He left this morning without taking any of my soldiers and we can’t find him. Do you know—” 

Like the clatter of armor that rattled and echoed in the hall as the palace guard arrived, Lorenz’s heart beat, hard, against his ribcage, a numbing throb that rattled and echoed in his ears. The racket of breastplates and greaves marching down the northern corridor had drawn in nosy courtiers, had drawn in attendants, had drawn in off-duty soldiers. As the knights halted in front of Lorenz in a protective semicircle the rest of the herd pressed behind them, anxious to see, to hear, to understand. 

A knight was saying, “Please, Your Grace, allow us to escort you someplace safer.” 

It hurt, a burrowing pressure behind his chest bone, every time he tried to take a steady breath. There was not enough air for them all, even in the spacious entrance hall. There would not have been enough air in the lowest valley, because Claude may be in danger.

Lysithea had grabbed his wrist, but when she spoke she addressed Leonie. “Cyril said Judith was leaving west. They’ll be coming into the palace by the western entrance.”

And Leonie was already running out of the hall, leaping down the stairs again. Lorenz watched, too slow to match her speed, entire body a coiled line of tension ready to unspool and follow after Leonie—

A knight was addressing him again: “Your Grace, please come with us—” Only Leonie had moved into action, Lorenz realized. There was a pack of palace soldiers in the entrance hall ready to escort Lorenz to safety and only Leonie and her mercenaries were looking for Claude. 

As the knight stepped into Lorenz’s path Lorenz skimmed around him and darted after Leonie down the stairs with Lysithea by his side. The knights and palace guards would follow. The knights and palace guards would irredeemably be slowed down by their armors. 

The western gate stood past the gardens. The gardens stretched past the courtyard, which they passed in a blur of startled servants and barking dogs. Lorenz spotted Leonie’s bright hair at the edge of it, just before the left turn that would take them to the gardens. He had some seconds to wonder why she had stopped— Then he saw the huge man gesturing and running, leading three horses toward her. Leonie leaped on a slender mare and spurred her on, erupting in the path of a servant carrying a basket of apples. Without stopping, Lorenz too grabbed the first reins he could reach—the stocky gelding, it turned out—from the grasp of no other than Raphael Kirsten, now easily recognizable without the helmet. 

He must have left his post guarding the doors even before Lysithea told Leonie where to find Claude, and had had only the time to take already saddles horses from the stables. They weren’t what Lorenz would have picked, if he’d had the opportunity to take the time to look around the stables and saddle a horse of his choosing. His gelding resisted when Lorenz kept pressing him for more speed, clearly unused to the chase. But any horse was better than none.

The western gate stood past the gardens, with their maze-like paths and obstructive hedgerows and pretty bushes of flowers that kept slowing them down. The third time the shrubbery stood in their way, forcing them to abruptly change direction, Lorenz told himself he would order it all razed to the ground. 

And even so, the gardens were too vast. Lorenz’s experience on a horse soon put him ahead of Lysithea and Leonie, still there was no sign of Claude, still a long stretch of gardens until the western entrance in which anything could happen—in which anything could have already happened. 

No. Surely Claude would be fine. Assassinations were supposed to happen during night hours in the cover of the dark, not in the middle of the day. Not when the sun shone so bright and an hour ago Lorenz had watched children playing in the market square with not a care in the world. 

Except that assassinations weren’t supposed to happen at all. 

Surely Claude would laugh when he saw them rounding a corner, out of breath with clothes askew and hair in disarray, lines of worry creasing their faces for no reason at all. He would be smug about it, and offer a wry smile, and Lorenz wouldn’t hear the end of it. 

The fire must have been the extent of it. The Agarthans must have wanted to cause panic, or even hoped to find Claude in his rooms and frightened him, but he hadn’t been there, he was safe—

Unless the fire was a distraction. 

Unless the attackers knew, as Lorenz knew, that when Claude spoke to Judith he usually did so without any guards with him, bar Cyril. 

Claude had known this would happen. Had hired people to protect him. Had expected to  _ need  _ these mercenaries to defend him and now would find himself only with Cyril by his side. Lorenz didn’t know the level of Cyril’s prowess with the axe he always carried strapped to his back, he may have been able to offer some defense, he must have been able to handle himself. And Claude? Claude, with his unerring aim and penchant for bows, who did only that which entertained him, would have shirked the sword lessons of his youth just as he had his horse lessons—would find himself weaponless and unable to attempt to disarm his attackers and retaliate. Dexterity and well-built muscles from bow training could gain him some time, but he’d still be unarmed, startled, alone. His sharp tongue would be useless against sharp blades and there would be no window to jump from, no rosebush to hide behind.

The sound of running water came first, the ornamental fountain erected just before the gates. It meant they were already there, it meant they hadn’t found anything amiss, that Claude could be fine—

Then the struggle: A pang of hard tempered edge against edge. A garbled shout. 

Lorenz dug the spurs into the horse’s sides. Just a bit more. Just a few feet and they would be able to see. 

_ Please, Goddess. _

He had always prayed only because it was what had been expected of a noble and for the first time he found himself meaning every prayer, every plea, every breath—

_ Please, let him be all right.  _

When he turned around the corner, the first thing he saw was the two-tier fountain. It stood, a circle carved from white stone ceramic, the centerpiece in the middle of a pond of clear waters reflecting the color of the sky, a bright blue that hurt to look directly at. 

Facedown on the shallow pond, the first body; steadily staining the water; a mist of red came from the black clothes. From the blond hair. 

The only movement came from closer to the fountain, Claude and one last assassin standing. Lorenz rode, hard, too far and too slow to do anything but watch the two figures circling each other. 

In front of his eyes, just steps away, the dagger flashed. And sank. A stab unerringly aimed between the ribs and into the heart. There was a grunt of pain, a keening exhale of air as Claude took a staggering step back from the assassin—who crumpled to the ground in a heap of black clothing, dead, dagger protruding from a chest emblazoned with the Crest of Flames.    
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [lorenz voice] having an honest conversation about my feelings instead of projecting? in THIS economy? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! and also thank you for your comments, they really make my day when i read them!! <3


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Before reading, I wanted to say that there's a change of pov within the chapter. This may happen again from this chapter onward, but because until now I've kept the POV changes to different chapters, I wanted to let everyone now!  
> Hope you enjoy ~~

Within Lorenz something dissolved—something that had been wrapped tightly around his ribcage weighing him down as a drying layer of cement would, cracking with every second passing as every hope of finding Claude safe vanished. 

But Claude was alive. 

Before the assassin’s dead body had shuddered for the last time Lorenz had already reined in, dismounted and, in his hurry, almost stumbled to reach Claude. 

In total, three bodies lay at Claude’s feet. Cyril’s axe was there too, embedded in a chest that had stopped heaving. That made, counting the body in the pond, four assassins sent to kill him. 

There was blood matting Claude’s hair, dripping in a steady trickle down a side of his face; there was, around them, utter silence, except for the heavy sighing of the horses, and a rushing sound Lorenz belatedly recognized as his struggle for breath. Claude stood very still, a hand on his waist, shoulders squared. He took in Lorenz’s arrival with a narrow-eyed gaze. To Leonie, coming to attention beside Lorenz, Claude nodded, then jerked his head sideways. Eyes following the direction Leonie took, Lorenz saw what Claude had wanted her to take care of. 

Once Leonie left, before Lorenz could push past the knot in his throat, Claude said, one word, “Cyril?” 

His face was ashen. 

A few steps away Cyril was slumped on the ground—a ground scorched with the familiar marks of Agnea's Arrow. His arm was bent in an unnatural angle, his head on Lysithea’s lap. Under the soft glow she had conjured to her hands, he was beginning just now to stir with consciousness. Only the unbending arm of Leonie clasped on his shoulder kept him from moving and worsening his wounds by coming to Claude. The steady stream of Leonie’s words looked like, “He’s ok too, you’re both all right. Let Lysithea work.” Lorenz took a deep breath—found the action easy for the first time since Leonie had found him. 

Claude, still frozen, could have checked on Cyril by turning his head. Claude was looking in the opposite direction, eyes unseeing. 

When Lorenz said, “He’s fine. He’s safe,” Claude pressed his eyelids shut as a wave of something deeper than Lorenz could fathom washed over him, unsteadying yet tempering. The breath he’d been holding left him through his nose, jaw still clenched tight. Lorenz found himself putting trembling fingertips there, over the stubble. 

“And you?” 

Claude was blinking slowly, now allowing himself to look Cyril’s way. He took in the quiet of Cyril’s hand resting atop Lysithea’s on his chest, the struggle of the scene of the fight, the crumpled bodies on the ground. Then his eyes turned to the soldiers just now arriving—Leonie’s men that had fallen behind during the frantic race being sent to check the perimeter—and lastly he looked to the cluster of horses that had retreated to the shrubbery, the palace in the distance, the long path they would need to take to get back. It looked like he was measuring something—Lorenz did not know what—with a calm, appraising gaze that belied the fight for his life he’d just been put through. 

Then, a minute shake of the head. “We need to keep one of them alive,” Claude said, at last turning his calculating eyes to Lorenz’s. They were dark black pools, only a thin rim of their usual color. “That one,” he pointed with his chin, “is just knocked out. I— I think.” His breathing was labored now that he was talking and couldn't keep a tight control on it, Lorenz noticed. “We—  _ You  _ must also send word to Hubert as soon as possible and tell him we have something he’ll want to get his hands on.” Lorenz let his hand drop from Claude’s cheek as icy dread started to spread inside his chest, shards of it splintering between his ribs as he tried to take his next breath. He made himself look down, where Claude kept one arm drawn in a taut line, one palm pressed to his side. But Claude dug his fingers in Lorenz’s arm, stepping forward. “We’ll let Adrestia deal with them. They’re only after me and are no real threat to Leicester. We’ll focus on whoever is giving the orders.” His tight grip on Lorenz’s arm started to slacken, as the slight movement took its toll and deep creases of pain carved Claude’s brow. “You can trust Leonie. And—” 

“Lysithea!” Lorenz shouted over his shoulder, moving one arm to surround Claude’s waist, supporting his weight to lower him to the ground before he collapsed. 

But Claude grabbed his other arm again to keep him still, swallowing a stifled sound of pain. As he struggled to stay on his feet Lorenz felt his fingers digging in his arm hard, with bruising strength. “Listen to me. Do not alert Judith. She— She’ll already be too far.” Without dislodging him, Lorenz parted the ruined lapels of Claude’s dark jacket, an ebony black that could conceal crimson. Beneath: Claude’s white-knuckled grip just above the left hip, shirt soaked red. Blood ran in thick rivulets down the back of his hand. Blood dripped down his fist as it pulsed out of him. To Lorenz’s horror, he was still speaking, hoarse and clipped; rushing the words as his strength dribbled out of him in a steady stream. “Cyril knows what to do, but don’t let him run around and fuss over me after being thrown around like he was. He’ll listen to you. Probably.”

“Stop talking.” Lorenz heard his voice trembling. “LYSITHEA! I NEED HELP!” 

“And tell Lysithea—” Claude faltered, hissing through gritted teeth, when Lorenz covered his hand with his own to put more pressure on the wound. His face blanched. “Tell her to drop the investigation, she’ll want to stay but make sure she leaves for Ordelia as soon as—”

“Stop speaking. Just—  _ Shut up.”  _

A faltering breath filled Claude’s lungs.“Lorenz—”

_ “Shut up.  _ It's going to be fine, do you hear me? You are going to be fine.” There was no stopping the shaking tone of his voice, or the words that rushed out of his mouth which he wasn’t sure to be controlling. “We have capable healers and trained physicians and this is only a stab wound. Stop talking like you’re dying and stop telling me what to do. I am sure I have as much experience as you do with assassination attempts." A mangled breath left Claude, an approximation of a laugh "So, for once in your life, be silent and let me think.” And, again looking over his shoulder, “Where’s Lysithea?” 

His experience with Faith magic was much lesser than hers. He had only ever healed shallow cuts that barely bled. He couldn’t risk damaging Claude... Hysterical laughter almost bubbled out of him—Claude was already extensively damaged. If they didn’t do anything, Claude was—

“What’s wrong— Oh,” Lysithea said at his elbow, at once taking in the blood and the fact Claude was standing only through sheer stubbornness and unreason. “I can’t—” Her voice shook. “You need an experienced healer for that. You need to check if any organ has been damaged before closing a wound like this one and I don't, I can't— I would only make it worse. I-I,” she faltered, eyes very wide. 

“I hardly think it can be worse,” Lorenz choked out. 

She was just reaching to touch the place where Claude’s and Lorenz’s hands were interlocked in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood when Claude swayed against Lorenz, body hitting body with all the strength of a ragdoll with its strings cut. Claude’s forehead knocked Lorenz’s jaw.

Lysithea took a step back, breath hitching in her chest. “Leonie’s mercenaries are here. Maybe there is a healer. I-I’ll be right back.” 

But Lysithea didn’t leave. “There aren’t any healers,” Claude said in a thin voice, halting her. He had regained part of his balance, leaning into Lorenz, and spoke with all the self-assurance of a man not bleeding to death. Lorenz remembered the way Claude had looked around himself after Lorenz had approached him. “Just…” he was grimacing as he said it, “bring me a horse.” 

_ “You can’t—” _

“The smallest one, if you please.”

Lorenz protested again, to no avail. In a flurry of skirts Lysithea had already left in the direction of the horses. Claude only looked at him with steely determination in his eyes, and he meant to get on a horse and ride for the palace instead of… Instead of what? Lorenz didn’t know how long they could hold on for the healer to be sent for and then arrive. Certainly going to the healers would be quicker. 

When he tried to lay Claude on the ground again, Claude locked his muscles with what little strength he had left. “I can stand,” he said, obstinate even in his hurting. He added, with a strangled frantic chuckle, “I mean I’d better. I am going to have to ride.” 

Lorenz closed his eyes, feeling the steady warmth of Claude's blood seeping into his own clothing and unable to do more than keeping him upright. Even that, he felt he’d fail soon, if his body continued shaking like a leaf that torn from its tree was starting to discover how sudden the wind blew. 

The faintest pressure on his face made him open his eyes. “You’ve got blood on your cheek.” Claude, tilting his head back with a visible effort, like a column of water weighted above him, was looking at Lorenz a little dazed, a little quizzical frown between his brows. Lorenz knew that by trying to wipe it Claude would just make it worse—both his hands were covered in that same blood. As Claude brushed his fingers across Lorenz’s skin he felt it, viscous and still warm, but he just stood there, looking and letting the man he had once thought to hate for the rest of his life smear his cheek with his blood, trying not to choke on the iron smell that covered everything, everything, and helpless to the prayer that still echoed in his head, useless as the Goddess may have been. 

“Oh great,” Claude said then, only slightly faint. “The whole circus is here.”

Lorenz’s head felt filled with lead as he looked away to check what Claude meant. It was the palace guard arriving. It was the palace guard, and the rest of the soldiers, and the dukes and the counts and every courtier that had heard and come to gawk upon the scene. 

Lorenz felt Claude drawing himself upright, pulling on muscles depleted of strength and half drained of blood as around Claude reunited the court which had distrusted him from the start, which after Claude had been drugged had offered cloying smiles and then mocked him for laziness. The advisors Claude worked with every day may have modified their considerations after realizing Claude was a worthy leader, but the stiff nobles—among who Lorenz had once found himself—still thought themselves above this ruler that had been imposed on them, of whose lineage they knew nothing except the existence of a crest. This was a court that a man as private as Claude would never want to show any weakness; he had never allowed into the open anything but what he wished, and when he wished so. 

The grim set of his jaw told Lorenz he’d rather go another round with the three Agarthans than let the courtiers realize the extent of his wounds. In his circumstances, there was no possibility of mounting a horse with the least semblance of self-possession. The horse would shy and fidget when presented with the smell of blood, hindering movements already dampened by blood loss. There would be a certain and undeniable amount of pain. Claude knew this. Claude would bear it as he’d borne the murmurs and the gossip and the drug in his food—impersonally and by himself, only he could not play facetious now.

The realization served as a slap to the face—it startled Lorenz out of his uselessness.

“Warp us,” he said when Lysithea managed to approach with the horse. It had taken a while: the horse was, predictably, skittish around the blood and the dead; the horse was, probably, a servant’s, unused to the frantic speed he had been put through, reluctant to comply again. 

Lysithea drew up short. “What?” 

“Warp us,” Lorenz repeated. “Warp us to my rooms and warp Leonie to the infirmary to alert the physicians and healers we will be needing them in my rooms at once. Can you do it? Can you warp us safely to my rooms?”

“I’ve never warped two people—”

“It's possible. Warp  _ him _ at the center, and me by his side.”

“Lorenz.” That was Claude, but Lorenz ignored his cavil just like he’d ignored Lorenz’s attempt to lay him down. 

“It will be fine, Lysithea.” Lorenz added, “Please.” 

Her eyebrows were pinched. But she had always been perceptive and sharp, and impossibly brave. She met Lorenz's gaze without turning away. 

Lysithea dropped the horse's reins. “Don’t let go of each other.” 

In Lorenz's arms, Claude took a deep breath. 

And they were sucked into the vortex. 

—

The fire in Claude’s rooms had been contained in time. Flames extinguished, other than procuring a new bed and new wardrobe and clothes, few measures needed to be taken. A strong wind spell was used to expel the smoke outside the window before it could stain any more than a wall and the ceiling—a painter would sort out that problem—leaving no visible evidence outside Claude's quarters.

Hours later, inside the four walls of Lorenz’s bed chambers, no signs of the fire existed. 

After the initial coming and going of knights and mercenaries to be ordered into position, guarding, patrolling, pursuing leads, and of the healers and physicians to be left alone as they worked, prodding, healing, applying poultices, not even the acrid, bitter smell of the smoke remained. 

Hours later, inside the four walls of Lorenz’s bed chambers, only one sign of the events of the day existed. 

It was the quiet, supine shape of the man lying in Lorenz’s bed. 

“You look better,” Lysithea said in a low voice when the door clicked shut behind him. He looked not covered in Claude’s blood, she meant. He hadn’t realized the severity of his state until Lysithea had come into the room just as the physicians left and, taking one look at him, sent him away to bathe. As well as the stained clothes, he’d left behind a basin with the contents of his stomach. “He hasn’t woken yet.” She was already rising from the chair by the bed. 

He kept his voice quiet as well. “You are returning to Cyril?” Hearing himself, for the first time in what seemed a long while, he startled at his own hoarseness. 

Lysithea didn’t remark upon it. Coming to meet Lorenz at the door, she said, “Yes. The physician ordered him rest in the infirmary, for observation. I’m staying with him. It’s most likely a concussion, but still…” she trailed off. Lorenz clasped her shoulder, earning a tired smile. A very tired, but slightly grateful smile. “He’ll be impatient for an update about Claude’s condition,” said Lysithea. 

“The physician is returning in the morning. I’ll send one of my attendants to the infirmary with a message. He can, of course, come see Claude the moment he is released.”

A nod. “Cyril will appreciate that.”

There was nothing else to discuss, if one didn’t wish to relive the anxiety and uncertainty, to remember the cloying scent of blood. But Lysithea hesitated. 

“Are you all right?” asked Lorenz. 

“Yes. Yes.” She pressed her eyelids shut. Upon reopening her eyes said, “Only… Be careful,” voice trembling. “And—stay with him.” 

Lorenz wanted to close his eyes as well. Retreat to some undisturbed place without threats. He settled for drawing Lysithea toward his chest to surround her with his arms. A faint shiver ran through his body, but Lorenz couldn’t have said from whom, of the two of them, it originated. 

Lorenz quietly wiped his face before Lysithea took a step back—judging by her bright, bright eyes, she had done the same. 

“Of course I will stay with him,” said Lorenz.

And she was gone. And he was alone. 

He was not alone. 

Walking toward the bed, he was prepared to reencounter the vellum quality of blood loss marring Claude's skin, the worrying paleness he'd last saw as he left to wash himself. But that had been right after Claude had passed out under the undeterred hands of healers checking for organ damage. Now, Lorenz was gratified to find, Claude's face had regained some of its color—still wan, but leaning toward sallow and alive. If one blamed the solitary candle and its weak light for the pale luster, it could be that he was simply sleeping. 

He sat on the chair Lysithea had dragged toward the head of the bed beside Claude. And waited. The healers had told him not to worry. Claude hadn’t lost enough blood to raise concerns about his waking. They needed to be alert for infection, but his wound was closed; he would wake up. 

With nausea permeating every word Lorenz had managed to push past the tightened knot in his throat, he had asked, "What about poison?" 

The answer had not appeased him. "If he shows any symptoms, one of us will be just outside the room, Your Grace. But without knowing which poison may have been used, no antidote may be procured." 

Claude did not look poisoned. Did not sweat and shiver under the bed covers. Only the peace of deep slumber weighted above him. 

The single candle painted him with strokes soft and mutely lilting, of light and shadow both. For a moment it seemed as if he weren’t looking at Claude at all, but a portrait of him, so much was the stillness, and so foreign—he’d never before seen Claude in the unguarded citadel of sleep. A portrait could never capture the way his face moved in wakefulness, so carefully expressionless at times, except for the signature smile, or the way he spoke and everybody listened. Not to mention the impossibility of even understanding the genuine emotion he sometimes allowed into the open. But in sleep, in sleep the brushes could attempt to portray the simplicity in the tousled dark curls splayed on the white linen of the pillow; the sharp jawline with the skin roughened by beard; the hollow where neck met shoulder, now bare and vulnerable, visible above the edge of the blanket covering him. There, over the shelve of the right collarbone, Lorenz couldn’t help but notice the place flesh turned pale in a long-ago healed injury—a sizeable scar such as that could only come from a very deep and extensive wound. He pulled on the blanket to cover the exposed skin, as if any prying eyes other than his existed in the room. 

He could not find in himself the insatiable need of knowing—where Claude came from, how he'd acquired that scar—that had led him to read report after report of his spies. Not anymore. Instead there was a different kind of curiosity, one that delved deeper, one more difficult to bear; he would have liked a place in Claude's life where Claude would have trusted him enough to tell him. 

Once, Lorenz would have given anything to never have to hear him speak again, or look at his face, or be seen by that gaze that seemed to know his every thought, tittering, between mocking and understanding. Now, in order for the world to offer some semblance of sense, Lorenz needed him to open his eyes.

He had stopped repeating the useless prayer in his head at some point after being warped into the room, when Claude had finally collapsed, almost slipping from his grasp. But by then the healers were already in the room and taking charge and Lorenz had found everything tilting as he let the wall, then the floor, take his weight. Somebody had put a blanket around his shoulders, there as he sat on the stained carpet. Somebody had restrained him as he insensibly tried to lurch forward when the physicians started working. Claude’s voice and breath had done something then; Lorenz had felt it in his own body. 

Until Claude had passed out. 

Lorenz found he was bending forward, burying his face in his hands with his elbows digging in his thighs. An instict, to curl around himself in an attempt to keep all frayed edges from splitting apart. He needed to stop shaking, dry his eyes. Claude did not deserve to wake and find him in such circumstances. Lorenz was not the one who had been attacked and injured. It was this thought he clinged to as he made his back straighten once more, pressing a hand to his eyes until he found he could open them and the light did not blur anymore.

Now that thought was possible again, Lorenz knew praying unnecessary, even if he'd been a devoted believer. The healers had assured him Claude would wake up. 

Yet Lorenz opened his mouth. 

“Claude?" He had to clear his throat to continue. " The healer said you are simply sleeping. I am certain this is unnecessary, yet… I wished you to know that you are safe now.”

As he spoke, he noticed a spot of red on Claude's skin—Lorenz would hate that color for a long time. A nurse had washed and wiped with care the worst of the bloodstains off Claude's body, the red he saw was fresh blood. Looking closer, he saw it came from a small cut in the palm of Claude's right hand, lying limp on top of the woven coverlet. It barely bled anymore, only enough to catch the eye. It must have escaped the healer's attention. 

Letting his hand hover over Claude's palm, he conjured the spell. His hand prickling with it, he lowered his glowing hand to seal the distance between skin and skin. 

Focusing on something tangible that would show quick results gave him solace. It was comforting, performing a task that required his attention drawn away from what could have happened—if the knife had sunk deeper, or in a different place, if there had been just one more assassin. If. If. 

If Claude had known about the letters his father had burnt. Would knowing Count Gloucester had tried to overthrow Godfrey have made Claude more careful? He couldn't let himself think about that or he'd choke on the guilt.

So Lorenz banished every thought from his mind until the cut healed.

After, he kept holding Claude's hand, so unfamiliar to him, despite the time they had known each other. Lorenz didn't know this hand, but he knew the cold in it to be unnatural. To be from violence. 

He found himself committing it to memory: the calluses of the archer fingers, which could handle knives and axes as well, it turned out; the scar across one knuckle, old; the scar crisscrossing the palm, new; the weight of it, broad and solid, in Lorenz's own.

He didn't know this hand, but he wanted to. He wanted it, as it fit between his hands, to warm under his touch and forsake the coldness which had possessed it—to assure no other threat touched Claude. 

If there was room, as he spoke and used Faith on the shallow wound, to think about the past week and the denial and reticence toward his own feelings, it was to realize, with the clarity with which the blacksmith recognizes the anvil as it is struck, that he could do nothing about it anymore. He was not the uncaring hammer but the heated iron, malleable and changed. 

—

—

Once, his mother had taken him to see the process of sheep shearing at the castle's pen. He'd probably asked. Probably had read it in a book and wanted to take a look at the procedure. There, he had jumped to throw himself, head first, into the pile of woolen fleece. Act first, ask questions later—he could barely remember the time when that had come naturally. 

Barely in time, his mother had grabbed his arm, crying out his name. She had, sternly, told him not to dare even think about it, but amusement had glittered in her eyes. 

He felt as if he'd accomplished it, in the end. Twenty years later, he now lay in a cocoon of woolen fleece and it pressed around him from every unreal corner. But it was black. 

It was also painless. He had the impression carving a path out would let the pain back in—of the knife that sank, and twisted; of that same knife, which he had had to pull out of himself to counterattack his would-be killer. 

In this painless place, which he now recognized as the threshold of wakefulness, old memories of pain blended with the new ones. Would he wake, aged eleven, not being able to move one shoulder after falling off his wyvern? Or would he wake, aged fourteen, ribs broken after being challenged to a mocking semblance of sword practice with his father's oldest son?

The pain, the real one—aged twenty-three, with hopefully no punctured organs after being stabbed in the abdomen—came back. But it was only an echo of what it had once been. A thorn in his side, it pulsed to the beat of his heart. There was also his throat, too dry to make swallowing an unremarked-upon experience. 

It also brought, as the fleece was peeled away, a voice. He couldn't make sense of it at first, but he knew that voice, even if it didn't usually sound as close—a soft murmur stripped of the cold formalities which were usually built around it. 

What he didn't know was the warmth covering one of his hands. It wasn't a touch he knew, but one he could learn to recognize.

Claude closed his fingers around it. Slender fingers squeezed back.

He opened his eyes to a pale oval face, framed in hair that looked darker than usual. The expression altering the face was unusual, too. 

When Claude spoke, the lines of tension deepened. Lorenz frowned. The words had not been the right ones, then. Claude tried again, too weak at the moment for the cinch of apprehension to take hold. There would be time to think and plan later. 

"Didn't know you could do that." His voice, again, sounded like a wheel being dragged through gravel.

But this time Lorenz understood. He blinked away his previous confusion until the quizzical frown vanished. 

Then, visibly pushing the treacherous thought away, said, "Only to heal little more than scratches, my Faith tutor back in school was not much pleased.” An unhurried pause followed. Lorenz said, “You should be safe here. Leonie has her best keeping guard.” As he spoke, he’d made to pull his hand away. Claude unconsciously tightened his grip to prevent him. 

“How’s—”

“Cyril is in the infirmary, under observation for a concussion, but he is conscious and anxious to see you. Lysithea will stay with him through the night. Your wound presented more difficulty, though in the end the healers found no apparent internal damage and were able to heal you without further trouble. If there are no signs of infection in the morning, you will recover your strength promptly.” Lorenz added, softly, "How are you feeling?” 

Claude took in the ivory-white face, in it the red-rimmed eyes, beneath them the pressed, thin skin darkened with fatigue. The tip of Lorenz’s nose was suffused with the rosy red of blood vessels dilated beneath the skin. 

Claude said, “Stabbed.” His lips cracked when he smiled. But Lorenz compressed his lips and released air slowly through his nose; in his face relief warred with apprehension, the latter clearly outnumbered the former. He looked one heartbeat away from calling the healers. “Mostly thirsty.”

That assessment of his wellbeing seemed to appease Lorenz. He said, “Wait a moment.” 

To, presumably, bring Claude a glass of water, Lorenz disentangled their hands. Claude felt his fingers slipping through his, then gone. He tried opening and closing his fist to assess his strength, feeling in his palm a curious tingling sensation—the lingerings of Lorenz's touch and, most of all, Faith magic. Probably. Despite the poor control he had of his muscles, he moved to sit on the bed. 

By the time Lorenz came back Claude had already taken stock of his surroundings—not his quarters, but he was pretty sure whose—and dragged himself to an upright position; to ward off the cold he clutched the blankets around him, keeping them from pooling around his waist. His chest was uncovered, a tight bandage wrapped around his waist. 

After moving to sit, clenching his teeth through the remaining sharp pain in his side, the act of raising his hand to take the water Lorenz presented him with would not have been a steady one. He decided against it. 

He decided against keeping his eyes open, too, as a dizzy spell washed over him. Sitting up had cost him all the strength he had left, and his brain disliked the new vertical position. Tough. 

It ebbed away without any haste whatsoever, the nausea receding into his stomach after long minutes of willing it away; the light-headedness coiled tightly to remain, a residue of his present weakness. His heart beat fit to burst out of his chest and to the tune of hoofbeats in a cavalry charge. He could not control the speed of his breathing. 

"The healer said you may feel faint of breath. It is caused by the blood loss," explained Lorenz. "The tachycardia as well."

Claude knew. Hearing it spoken aloud helped. 

He had managed, still with his eyes closed to focus, to regain some modicum of control over his overworking lungs, when an unexpected touch to his forehead—a touch that no matter how mindful would have struck too sudden over the overstrung nerves—startled his heart back into a frenzy. He jerked away, blind—then, blinking rapidly, opened his eyes. 

“I am so so sorry,” Lorenz stammered, visibly flinching away as well. “I meant to check your temperature. The healer said— I should never have surprised you like that, after what happened— I— Forgive me.”

Digging his fingers in the feathery bedding to hide the tremors running through his hands—no longer of all them born from blood loss—Claude felt the locked breath in his chest push to be released in a frantic cackle of hysterical laughter. What would people say if they saw the two leaders of the Alliance, the two  _ married  _ leaders of the Alliance, flinching away from each other in the privacy of a dimly lit room? Maybe that was the reason he’d had a knife stuck in his abdomen. What a hoot. 

“It’s all right, Lorenz,” he said, putting a tight lid over the laugh which would have probably sent Lorenz clamoring for a healer, or a priest. “It caught me unawares, that’s all. I don’t think I have much of a fever, though,” Claude added, putting the back of his hand to his forehead to check. "Though I guess one's coming, if I lost as much blood as I seem to remember."

Lorenz nodded rigidly from the position where he’d retreated, as far as the chair so close to the bed allowed. He had his arms wrapped around his chest. Looking closer, taking advantage of Lorenz’s averted gaze lost somewhere on the coverlet, Claude took notice of his hair, and of the small drop, invisible except when caught by the candlelight, as it slid down Lorenz’s neck. Of course, his hair had seemed darker because it was wet. On top of that, he wore a flimsy shirt. As elegant and expensive as anything he wore, yes, but of thin silk that could not possibly be offering him any warmth, not with the fire in the hearth as weak as it was—the perfect temperature for someone beneath thick blankets heated with a bed warmer.

They spoke at the same time. In the silence—not even the hearth so kind as to offer the sound of logs cracking—“You should get in the bed” and “You should go back to sleep” sounded and mingled, before hurrying away and leaving silence between them once more. 

Lorenz’s cheeks seemed to acquire some color. He was still not looking at Claude. 

Claude had never done awkward. He was not about to start now. 

“I think I can drink now without causing a small flood, if you pass me the glass.” 

Startling into efficiency, Lorenz retrieved the glass from the bedside table. When Claude closed his fingers around the glass, he held, for a moment, Lorenz’s fingers too. He  _ was  _ cold.

“Tell me about the assassin?” Claude asked before drinking. “The one I didn’t…”

“He is in the dungeons under heavy guard, still unconscious, strictly restrained. The healers will assure he survives for an interrogation.” Lorenz said, in a flat tone, “As you told me. While bleeding out. Instead of immediately informing me you were injured.”

The water soothed his dry throat as he drank in small sips. It restored him. Between swallows, he caught Lorenz’s gaze. Like the tide, it teetered between cold—eyes flashing with reproach—and warmth—worry softened his edges. “Thanks for listening,” said Claude. “I wasn’t sure how...how long I would take to recover. I know you didn’t need me to tell you." He didn't try to keep the apologetic tone from his voice. "Still, I couldn’t rest easy unless I did.” 

Lorenz looked away. "Your priorities," he started to say, but stopped. 

In silence, Claude drained the glass. When Lorenz reached to take it from him, Claude gripped Lorenz’s wrist to bring his hand to his own forehead. 

“What are you doing?” Lorenz squeaked, stiffening as he was dragged close to the bed. 

“You wanted to check my temperature,” said Claude. “So, check my temperature.”

Lorenz huffed, slowly relaxed into the touch, with still an undercurrent of tension in the tightened lips. “You are,” his palm broadened against Claude’s forehead, “slightly warm. But it doesn’t seem like a fever yet, no.” 

“Good.” Claude let go of his hold on Lorenz. Yet the touch lingered, slender icy fingers soothing the warmth of his skin as Lorenz, fastidious to a point, made sure of his verdict. Lorenz’s hands were thin, objectively, as refined as the rest of him. Now, Claude knew it was his mind mixing events of his life, moments past and present, but pressed to his forehead, the hand felt comforting, too. An assuaging weight on a place used to receive attention during one’s vulnerable moments: countless times had his mother pressed a tender hand there to check his temperature when he was sick and bedridden, the latter his worst possible nightmare as an overactive child. But that had been before the first batch of assassins arrived, and then the second, and then the frequent fights with his half-siblings; before the touch of his mother's hand on his forehead as he lay convalescent from something worse than a fever had become a different thing, her eyes clouded with guilt and regret and impotence and the weight of it choking.

He'd started shrugging her off, like the impatient teenager he may have been. He couldn't remember the last time anybody had offered it—or even if somebody had since he'd entered adulthood. 

Until now. 

Because he was in the middle of some unwelcome realizations, there was no resistance when Lorenz slid his hand down to cradle his cheek and tilt Claude's head back, back, making him look directly upon Lorenz's face. Upon the narrowed eyes, in the low trembling light coming from the candle unfortunately darkened to hide the gleam of amethysts. There was a little frown between his so-very-expressive brows, but not born from the usual discontent Claude was an expert in evoking.

Living in close quarters with Lorenz—or rather, living in a huge palace with Lorenz yet continuously running into him, sometimes on accident—had led to a series of situations that had made his touch not foreign. There was the dancing, for instance. There was the rosebush incident only a week ago. Still, Lorenz had never touched him like this. With this deliberate, searching scrutiny of both hands and gaze, worthy of all of Lorenz's undeterred focus, touch careful as if it were Claude's face that had suffered the wound. It may have been—his skin prickled a bit. Like Faith magic felt. 

"Your pupils are dilated, but I would venture that is due to the low light," said Lorenz, fingertips still cold but persistently soft. His skin was probably soft everywhere else. 

He was already letting go, leaving Claude blinking in a cloud of confusion with a brain addled by blood loss. 

It took some time before it sank in. 

"You think I've been poisoned?" Claude spluttered, fighting the impulse to put his fingers to his face. 

Back in his chair, Lorenz asked, "Is it such a wild assumption?" The weight of that gaze didn't diminish from a distance, not now their previous awkwardness had been forgotten and Lorenz was the picture of self-possession, slender legs crossed. "The people that attacked you belonged to the same group that has been taunting us for so long, and they have made use of such tactics before. The physician said to be alert for any possible symptoms." 

"I know about poisons. I’m not poisoned," said Claude. 

"Knowing about them does not mean knowing about  _ being _ poisoned." 

Claude kept silent about that statement, hoped Lorenz understood that as agreement. There was no need to talk about any of the times Claude had decided to research the effects of certain poisonous herbs on himself. And anyway, none of those had been fatal, which was the kind of poison now worrying Lorenz. 

Claude said, "Most deadly poisons act within the first two hours and," checking the sliver of dark window behind the closed curtains, "I think that's not the case anymore." Lorenz looked unconvinced. "There are some which can take longer to take effect, yes, but those are much harder to acquire, nobody who wouldn't wish for subterfuge would use them. And stabbing the poison into somebody in the middle of the day is not what I would consider stealth—so there's no need for them to use those kinds of poisons. But,” he added, because he was already sensing Lorenz forming a rebuttal, “if I feel unwell, I'll tell you.” Lorenz closed his mouth. 

"They should have poisoned the knife, yes,” Claude continued. “That they didn't means they were overconfident." 

"No,” said Lorenz, “they were not. They sent  _ four _ assassins. You have never…” Lorenz trailed off, and the way the cogs in his head were beginning to turn became evident. 

"You thought a couple of assassins with pointy sticks would be enough to do me in, didn't you?" 

"A couple?" Lorenz scoffed. "I thought one would do more than fine. Do not laugh!" What lay beneath the carefully composed words sobered Claude. The light of the candle on the bedside table fell on Lorenz’s face, his eyes very bright as he spoke, slowly, “How could I think otherwise? You did not participate in the tournament, except for the popinjay shoot, and bows are not ideal weapons to defend oneself in close quarters. And you don't carry one, or a sword. You show no interest in training with the palace guard like Godfrey was known to do, and have constantly refused dukes inviting you to participate in amicable duels." Lorenz took a deep breath. His clutch on the arms of the chair was white-knuckled. "Nobody would have expected you to take on more than one assassin and  _ live."  _ His voice broke. Claude watched him, powerless, as he put himself together. Lorenz opened his eyes, said, "They were as confident as you wanted them to be. They sent four to account for Cyril, but one should have been enough for you. You planned for this, you were—maybe not expecting it, but the mercenaries were not your only safeguard. If you had been known to be someone more capable—someone who can handle hand-to-hand combat, can wield a knife—such as Godfrey, such as, as Holst Goneril—" 

"The knife would have been poisoned, yes. They would have made sure." Claude watched his words sinking, Lorenz becoming still, a statue in the half-light, except for the blinking cream-colored gleam as his chest rose and fell under the silk. Claude said, "I'm not Holst Goneril."

"No.” It was, in Lorenz's pale face, impossible to discern anything. Claude knew the famous defender of the border was not only a person to the people of the Alliance, as he was not to the people of Almyra. He had become a figure, someone to admire or fear for his irresolute strength, his prowess in battle. Holst was also a straightforward commander, not one to outsmart Almyran forces with nasty schemes, but bulldoze through them with unhidden might. Even in Almyra, some respected him as a worthy enemy for it. “Holst would be a terrible ruler,” said Lorenz. 

It was not what Claude had expected to hear. He knew for a second his surprise had shown in his face, saw it reflected in Lorenz’s raised eyebrows. But Lorenz hadn’t finished. "Except nobody would try to poison someone like Holst, he is not dangerous, while you are still investigating Godfrey's death."

Claude let out a long breath. "Lorenz, we don't have to talk about this. I don’t even know if this has anything to do with Godfrey. Maybe someone simply doesn’t want me here."

"We do have to talk about it. Do not lie to me. There is someone willing to kill you out there. House Gloucester has the best informants in Leicester and even I don’t know where you have come from. If someone wants you dead, it is because of your Riegan blood. I never believed those rumours about Godfrey, it was a beast, an accident.” Lorenz smiled, bitter. “But how difficult would it be, to lead a beast into his path, on the edges of an estate, a long distance away from help? Not any more difficult than knowing that you don’t take your guards to talk to Judith. Or that Judith was leaving today and you would have to pass through the gardens— I should have been helping you, I should have believed you. Instead I almost lost—” The effort to halt there was visible. Lorenz buried a hand in his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, shaky and weary after the events of the day, which he should never have witnessed. It came to Claude then, unbidden, as he watched Lorenz’s hair fall back into its usual position, weighted down by its dampness— _ His hair is wet because he had to wash your blood off it.  _ Before Claude could reach out to him, try to calm the anxiety evident in the speed of Lorenz's breathing, Lorenz pushed away from the chair and walked to the hearth. “There is something you should know.”

"No," said Claude. "You're in shock. You're not thinking straight. You'll regret it in the morning."

"You think I am that fickle? You think I am just like my father, don't you? You despise him. You think he's corrupt, that he's a murderer. And you are married to his son." He stood with his head bent down to look at the glowing embers of the fire warming the room, the line of his shoulders a study in tension; sharp shoulder blades pressed to the canvas of the shirt, gray shadows between them as they drew upright defying weariness. Lorenz's words traveled clearly through the room, tone stark for its bleakness. "It must sicken you. How fortunate that you are an expert at masking your contempt." 

_ "No _ ," Claude blurted out, horrified. "Nobody who knew you would think you're anything like that. And I believe I have come to know you—some of you. I know you're no murderer. I know you're noble, you're loyal."

"Loyal to _whom?_ " Lorenz asked in a thick voice. "I was taught to be loyal to my family, to my House. All it has done is blind me to my father's follies." 

"I don't think you are blind to them. Not anymore."

"No." His exhale was a sharp, long resolution, audible even at a distance. Claude heard the decision made in it. "My father showed me—"

"I know about the letters," Claude burst out. Lorenz's head jerked upright, but he did not give any other indication of what he'd heard. Claude said, "They aren't as important as you think. They don't mean anything without further proof." 

"How—?"

"I have an, um, informant inside Gloucester estate. They've been there for years. They managed to copy them, before your father brought them here to Derdriu to, I assume, destroy them?" Lorenz nodded, turning around slowly, like Claude was pulling on the correct strings. Claude continued. "I also knew you knew. The way you acted after you saw your father that last time, some things you said… Your face is very, well, expressive." 

"You knew," Lorenz breathed. He didn't sound angry. "You took so long to wake up, and once I started thinking it I couldn't stop—maybe, maybe if you had known my father tried to overthrow Godfrey you would have been more careful, or— But you knew." His shoulders dropped as he let out a shuddering breath. 

Something in the way he held himself, arms crossed tightly over his chest, made Claude want to lie, offer the vacuous comfort of the lie it would be to say Count Gloucester wasn't the main suspect in his investigation, the man he was confident had tried to have him killed. Who had had Godfrey killed. 

Dishonesty was no stranger to him, often took no effort at all, but he felt the words stuck in his throat, too rotten to be spoken. Instead what came out was truth. "Even if I hadn't known, I wouldn't have blamed you for not telling me about the letters. I would never ask you to betray the loyalty you think you owe your father." He had no strength left to lie to Lorenz, not that night. "You don't owe me anything." 

In fact, if Lorenz had asked him, then, where he came from— It was a good thing Lorenz didn't. Instead he came forward to the end of the bed, in silence, one hand curling around one of the bedposts. He parted his lips, but stopped as his gaze fell on Claude's face, and said something which, quite clearly, wasn't what he'd meant to say. "You must be exhausted. You should rest. I apologize for my outburst, we can discuss everything tomorrow." 

Claude's voice was quiet when he said, "You don't have to apologize." At that, Claude thought to see the smallest of smiles. Too quick it ceased. The light too low now to be sure.

Lorenz repeated, "You should rest."

Without any particular motive, Claude said,"These aren't my rooms."

"No. Oh, of course, you don't…” Lorenz pressed the pad of a finger to the bridge of his nose. Then, “Someone set fire to your chambers. It does not take much to guess at who, or at their purpose, as you will agree. The majority of your belongings is safe, except for the contents of your wardrobe. I should have told you sooner, with everything that is happening I—” 

"Hey,” Claude cut him off gently, "it’s ok." He'd imagined something must have happened to make Lorenz share his quarters. Fire was a very unoriginal, predictable distraction to cause a small commotion. He didn't congratulate himself for wholly anticipating it, or its details, but what few irreplaceable possessions he had—documents and letters from his informants regarding Godfrey's death and Count Gloucester's doings—he'd kept in a safer place, far from where anyone would know to search for them. "I understand there was a lot on your mind.” He felt his lips curling. “I'm flattered you place my safety higher than the state of my room.” 

The smile stretched further when Lorenz returned it, an honest and private thing, not exactly the picture of joy, but enveloping the promise of it. Lorenz said, “Only a little higher,” very quietly. 

Claude huffed out an amused breath, shaking his head in disbelief—at Lorenz’s teasing words, at how easily the response came to his own lips, effortless as he looked at Lorenz, all blunted edges in a simple shirt, alone with him in a room slowly melting in gentle gray light. “I assume I place below  _ your  _ room.” 

Lorenz pretended to think, tilting his head. “Only below the half that contains my dresser and vanity. The rest may be replaced.”

“Oh? In that case I can still count myself lucky, thank you.” He heard his own voice, dripping laughter thick as honey with no way, or will, to stop it from happening. 

And Lorenz’s, in a different, more breathless form of amusement: “My pleasure.” 

With the light of the fire behind him, now brighter than the dying flame of the candle, the contours of Lorenz’s body were almost visible through the thin shirt; the lines of his chest, his waist, discernible through the silk. Claude could choose to follow the fall of the billowing sleeves, narrowing to tightly wrap around Lorenz’s wrists like a second skin hiding the point of his pulse, fine silk against even finer skin.

Claude felt the pull, like a hook burrowing behind his ribs, and he, who took satisfaction in being able to read others, did not know how to interpret it then, even as it started to sharpen within him. He thought to attribute it to a newly-found, until-then unsought affinity between them—two men who, for all their different ways, jealously coveted their privacy and had had a last standing barrier pried open. He knew that was what Lorenz was seeing, what he’d seen as he waited for him to recover consciousness. What he didn’t know was what had prompted Lorenz to offer this in return: the privacy of his rooms, the shirtsleeves instead of the imperturbable dressings of aristocracy.

If through the feverish befuddlement in his brain—for it had finally settled in, the slight trifling fever Claude had been waiting for after losing that much blood—Claude could recognize something, it was that recovering consciousness after someone tried to kill you was not supposed to feel like this, almost like the safe cocoon had followed him into reality. 

He wondered if Lorenz had sent away his ever-present, hovering attendants for his sake, and stopped wondering— _ Warp us,  _ he’d said. 

Claude hadn't thanked him yet. 

“It’s late,” said Claude. “You should sleep a little.” 

Lorenz laughed, in the deep silence a mellow change of breathing more than anything else. “I was the one suggesting that to you.” He shook his head. “But I do not believe I will manage it, to sleep tonight. You may have the bed." 

"Don't be ridiculous. You look about to keel over, and tomorrow is going to be a very long day. At least come lie down, read some poetry?" Lorenz narrowed his eyes, in spite of Claude's brave attempt not to let his smile through. 

"I…" Lorenz's hand fell to smooth over the coverlet at the end of the bed. "There is…" He looked around himself, lower lip caught between his teeth for a second of disarrayed propriety which he had never sanctioned before, at least not in front of Claude. Lorenz cleared his throat. "I will finish, er, tidying up and then I shall—" He had begun retreating from the bed, instead of moving toward it. Lorenz said, "Then I shall join you." He sounded about to cough.

And something seemed to be happening. Claude watched him walk backwards into the hearth, almost stepping into the ashes, then rigidly bend down to tend to the fire, then start fluttering around the room like a busy bee adrift in the wind. He moved the chair by the bed to push it against the wall where it must have belonged, picked the empty glass of water from the bedside table to put it away, checked the doors—first of the bedroom, then of the wardrobe—were firmly shut. The curtains earned from him a displeased once over, as they seemed not properly closed. Lorenz stood in front of them pulling on the heavy dark velvets to return them, some minutes later, to their exact same previous position.

Claude watched it all happen with an unavoidable combination of curiosity and bemusement. But by the time he'd found his voice, Lorenz had disappeared behind a folding screen that kept part of the right side of the room private. 

From his disadvantageous position propped against the headboard, Claude could only hear Lorenz moving around; the whispers of clothes on skin, a chair being dragged, the tinkling of glass on glass, a drawer opening. He assumed a twin of the vanity Claude had in his own quarters was behind the screen. A mirror probably as well.

Their rooms were very similar, in structure if not content. Lorenz's had no traces of discarded clothes or shoes, and except for the neat pile on the bedside table, no other books were lying around waiting to be either read or returned to the library, or just generally existing. The four-poster bed seemed about the same size, but this coverlet was a delicate shade of lavender, with a detailed embroidery of cream-gold roses of painstaking complexity. It looked fit to be hung in an art gallery, not lay on a bed, yet Claude found his hands returning to smooth over the impossibly soft surface, so perhaps it was in the right place after all.

Only the light of a fresh candle preceded Lorenz’s return, a trembling sheen of yellow across the room, across the bedspread as Lorenz advanced toward the empty side of the bed. He stood there after setting the candleholder on the bedside table, cheeks blooming a delicate pink. He had put his hair in a loose queue that fell down one shoulder—Claude stared at how this new style restructured the planes of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his neck. It was a while before he tore his gaze away. Lorenz's hands, in front of him, clutched a familiar robe around himself, over what must have been his nightclothes. 

"No pigsties nearby?" said Claude, unprompted. He wasn't sure if Lorenz would remember, as he did, his words from their wedding night. 

"No," said Lorenz, the tight clasp of his fists relaxing, "not in this silk robe, certainly." He lifted one eyebrow. 

The laughter left Claude in an exhale of half surprise. He wouldn’t have bet on them ever being able to laugh, together, about their wedding night. Life could surprise you sometimes, in ways different than assassins and knives. 

“I can move into another room tomorrow,” Claude said while Lorenz wiggled to burrow under the blankets. He too slid down until his head touched the pillow, sighing as his sore muscles sank in the mattress. Lying side by side, both of them staring at the coffered ceiling, the bed was wide enough they did not even come close to touching. “I’ve unfairly taken your bed from you. I know this isn’t what you’d choose.”

“You are right.” Claude accepted the long silence. Then, “I would choose your rooms not to have been broken into. I would choose you hadn’t been attacked.” Lorenz said, “I did choose to have you brought here to recover. I thought it would be safer than settling in a new room, in a place of the palace with which you may be unfamiliar. But if you disagree, then tomorrow you may..." 

Claude heard the unspoken question in the sentence that did not end. He lay his cheek on the pillow, turning his head to see Lorenz's profile as he stared above. 

Neither of them mentioned the still-lit candles. Claude preferred, for tonight, to leave them as such. Claude said, "Thank you."

“It’s not necessary—”

“Let me anyway. I don’t get the chance every day to thank someone for leading a cavalry charge to my rescue.”

“Please," said Lorenz, lightly, "a cavalry charge of three horse?”

“Or for preventing me from trying and probably failing to get on a horse with a stab wound. And bringing me here, offering your own room when you didn't have to.” It was as if once started, stopping resisted him, when usually, it was the other way around. "So," Claude told him, "thank you. I can't imagine how today would have gone without you.”

Slowly, Lorenz met his eyes. His tied hair framed his face, catching the varnished reflection of the light. Lorenz said, “I’m glad that you are all right. That you came here.” He faintly winced. “Obviously I’d rather you were safe, I did not mean— It's not funny, stop it." Then, "What I mean is, I like leading by your side." And after a hesitant pause, "For some time now, I have, and I should have told you sooner. You are a worthy leader. One with whom the Alliance is capable of thriving.” 

Claude spoke past the unexpected lump in his throat. “We make a good team," was all he could say. 

"Yes." Lorenz returned his gaze to the ceiling. Claude no longer saw his eyes—they fell in the shadow. Under his breath, Lorenz repeated, as if to himself, "A team." 

Claude looked away as well, muscles seeking the position to loosen and sleep. His eyelids were becoming very heavy. His eyes burned with the effort to keep them open. "I'm glad to have you too. Good thing dear old grandpa forced this union on us, right?” He meant, good thing we had the time to discover one another. He meant, probably nobody knows me the way you do. But that was unfair, almost nonsensical: there was so much Lorenz did not know yet. 

He heard the rustle of sheets. When he looked at Lorenz again, he found his back. 

"Yes," said Lorenz again; the last thing he said. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have stopped looking at the word count (I Do Not See It, I Am Looking Away), I swear I would never have imagined it would take me these MANY WORDS to have them together ;.; Hope you guys are liking the slowburn.....  
> Thanks so much for reading and for your kudos and comments!! I appreciate it so much <3 Hope everyone is doing well!!
> 
> (Oh also!! In this chapter, there are some headcanons of mine about Claude's past and the half-siblings that were mentioned in that interview that came out recently. In his A support with Marianne he says "Everyone hated him simply for existing. Yelling, fighting back, explaining himself... Nothing he did could change his situation." I know "fighting back" can be interpreted in different ways, but I thought that, as much as Claude is not one to prioritise physycal strength and fights, he must have lashed out at some point(s) when he was very young. I always pictured that he was treated badly by people kind of close to him in age (as well as the adults who he'd have been more helpless around), and I thought he must have had some awful cousins, but the half-siblings thing is somehow worse :( thanks intsys


	10. X

In a defeated voice: “Lord Acheron. It was Lord Acheron.” 

“See? My method yielded results in a swifter fashion,” said Hubert von Vestra. He was putting his gloves back on and turning away from the soon-unconscious Agarthan tied to the chair. He added, in what, for him, would be considered a conversational tone, “Was that not the reason you had us  _ fly  _ back here posthaste? And when we were so close to Adrestia already.”

After standing in the cramped, humid cell for the hours it had taken the Agarthan to sidestep, and in the process expectedly weary of, all of Claude’s questions and fall into the clutches of the Adrestian Minister of the Imperial Household, Claude’s wound, though healed, had started to complain again. It now sent sharp bursts of lightning-quick pain when he pushed away from the wall to check the state of his prisoner. He appeared to have fallen unconscious after the fraught confession. Beckoning to the guard on duty, Claude conveyed brief orders regarding the watch he wanted at all times kept on the prisoner. Then he followed Hubert out the door, and into the long corridor bathed in shadows where no other cells were occupied. 

Cyril, who hadn’t left his side since the physicians released him from the infirmary, fell into step behind him. 

“I cannot help but notice your lack of enthusiasm,” von Vestra drawled, looking over his shoulder. “Was my performance not up to your standards? Or were you perhaps hoping for a confession that would allow you to put away your father-in-law for good?” 

That Hubert knew of Count Gloucester’s current investigation was no cause for surprise. Neither should it have been the echo of truth Hubert’s barb struck in Claude’s mind; yes, Claude had expected—had braced himself for—a different name to fall from the prisoner’s lips and yes, that name should have been that of Lorenz’s father. Lord Acheron had in no way enough influence or funds to persuade the few Agarthans that remained to his cause, whatever that cause may have been. Yet Hubert’s curled lips, smug and mocking, spoke of what he assumed was a wish unfulfilled, a plan thwarted; a frustration Claude knew he should have felt starker: once again, and worse, after almost succeeding in another assassination, Count Gloucester got away with it. But Hubert’s pointed remark felt shallow and unbarbed, aimlessly shot. 

He had an inkling as to where Hubert should have aimed to better pick his brain. For some time now, and it was impossible to ignore anymore, Count Gloucester had ceased to only be the man Claude had promised his grandfather he'd help catch and put behind bars for Godfrey's murder. Now, when he pictured finding a solid lead on Count Gloucester, the image was tinted with the glow of embers. 

_ My father showed me— _

He'd always known Lorenz would make his purpose more difficult; never in a million years would he have imagined he'd do so by offering help. By believing him, and trusting him with what could become his undoing. He didn't know if Lorenz realized his father had made of him some sort of accomplice by showing him the letters, but Claude felt all too heavy the weight of what Lorenz had confided in him. 

But it was more than that.

_ Loyal to whom?  _

Hubert was throwing a sidelong look at him. He wondered if he'd blinked at all. 

Despite the pain in his side and the fact he hadn't, against his will, left his bed in a week and his muscles had grown weak, it took no effort to produce a smile of his own. “Why? Are you going to share some advice on putting away fathers-in-law?” What was not effortless was keeping up with Hubert’s long strides. Claude could feel sweat sticking his shirt to his back, pressed down by the heavy jacket and the oppressive darkness of the subterranean corridor. The healer insisting Claude stay in bed another week had not been, after all, the  _ overcautious standard of an overbearing profession _ , as Claude may have told Cyril, grown bored and restless after staring for hours and hours at his shiny new wardrobe with nothing else to do. Claude ignored Cyril’s knowing gaze, and after gathering some breath in his lungs, added, still to the man sweeping past by his side: “You did it so well yourself, if I recall correctly. At least up until the point he escaped from prison.” 

Hubert deigned to shoot a cursory glance at him. “The folly of misplaced ambition,” said he. “But do not concern yourself, I am positive, were you in that position, you would be able to trust every soldier you chose to guard the cell not to fall victim to a count’s bribe.” The pause consumed but seconds. When met, Hubert’s glance now had a pensive air to it, and lasted longer. “Of course, a cell isn’t always necessary. There’s a precaution against escape safer than untrustful guards and iron bars; and a swifter judgment.”

In silence, the stairs should not have presented a bigger challenge than the harried pace. They climbed the narrow steps, slippery where they had been worn down by the sole and weight of countless boots, but Claude did not remain quiet for long. “Is this the advice I did not ask for?” Claude asked in a faux whisper. “I would say my thanks, but first I wonder you didn’t use yourself this option you speak of.” 

“Why indeed.” 

Keeping his voice bare of strain was proving a harder endeavor than he’d thought, though fruitful, if Hubert had not leaped to mention it as of yet.

Hubert came to the top of the stairs and stopped to take in the courtyard that welcomed them. The busy life of the palace at noon thronged and bustled around them, but Hubert was not looking at the servants moving about. Through the glare of the sun blinding him after the long hours underground, Claude could see the two men around whom all activity ceased to allow passing. "Do not make the mistake of claiming our circumstances are the same." Hubert said that and nothing else, watching Ferdinand approach. His last words, and Hubert's steady gaze ahead, seemed answer enough for Claude. 

Soon, Lorenz and Ferdinand had joined them. And Claude was caught between Cyril’s palpable discontent drifting from behind him and Lorenz’s withering gaze coming towards him. Though it wasn’t what he’d first noticed, that gaze. For the time it took Lorenz to approach across the length of the yard, all Claude grew conscious of was, densely, the fact that he hadn’t seen him in nearly a week. The last clear picture he had of him was of a robe trailing open at his sides, and the warmth of the hearth and bed in his room. Not that he’d expected Lorenz to have forgone decorum and go around in his shirtsleeves, but the stiff high collar of his morning coat hugged his neck in a snug way that not only would have smothered Claude, but made it seem like winter was in its cusp, and not receding as spring began to approach. 

“Well?” said Ferdinand, addressing both Hubert and Claude. “Were there any results with the interrogation? You were taking so long we decided to come see how things were progressing.” 

Claude opened his mouth to answer, but—

“I thought the healer ordered another week abed,” Lorenz cut in, eyes boring into Claude’s. 

Claude was conscious of Hubert raising a bemused eyebrow, and next, his nonchalant answer to Ferdinand; a concise explanation of their discovery—it included no names and very little information—and a succinct proposal to better discuss the subject indoors. Lorenz paid it no mind. 

“The healer  _ recommended  _ another week,” Claude said to the inquisitive silence as Ferdinand and Hubert left them to start a slow stroll towards the palace. They were either too caught up in the conspiracy they were unraveling or had decided to keep themselves out of whatever was going to come out of Lorenz’s mouth. He looked murderous. 

“According to him”—oh wonderful, they had talked—“he earnestly prescribed at least one more week, if not a fortnight, of bed rest.” He was enunciating every word very clearly, in no way yelling but hissing with a force that would have made a lesser man flinch. 

It was the first time, too, that they talked since Claude had left Lorenz’s chambers. A feverish recollection was what had become of his memory of those first moments after the attack. The halo of fuzziness illuminated some with almost unbelievable brightness and irreparably shaded others; and in Claude's attempts to recover the latter, Lorenz had been no easy help. Sharing a room for two days had meant little to nothing as his husband left before Claude woke and returned when, in the weakness of recovery, he could barely keep his eyes open. Then, after Claude had moved to his restored bedroom, Lorenz had not visited. Instead an attendant had brought Claude reports of what he had to be content with reading and not doing. 

And now this. In the middle of the busy courtyard. With so many servants watching. It was usually Lorenz the one preoccupied with propriety. 

"He came into the council room this morning," Lorenz was saying, "after failing to find you in your quarters. I stepped out to be told that you could rupture a blood vessel if you insisted on moving about, or your heart might give out if overexerted, or, or—" 

"He shouldn't have gone to you." Claude rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the building of a frustrated sigh in his chest. 

"Excuse me?"

"I'm… I'm sorry he interrupted your work to agitate you with such tales. He shouldn't have bothered you. I'll talk to him." 

"That is not the  _ point."  _ Lorenz looked befuddled. 

"I'm fine. See?" Claude lifted his arms, open hands skyward. "I will have him brought to my rooms at his earliest convenience for a check-up, all right? But a fortnight would have overdone it a bit, admit it." He winced at the thought of so many days uselessly locked up. "And nevermind that, I thought you'd be interested in what the prisoner told us." In truth, he had little idea how Lorenz would react. Would he see as Claude did that Acheron could not have been the perpetrator, was a pawn instead? Would the botched confession be enough for Lorenz to exculpate his father? 

After drawing a short breath, their surroundings seemed to finally enter Lorenz's awareness. He drew himself up, with a slight frown said, "Not here." He shook his head, as if bodily putting some thoughts away. "Ferdinand will have dragged Hubert to lunch before they continue working, most likely." 

The thought of a court lunch just then was enough to sour what little appetite he had. He preferred his meals without the soreness of muscles, the sharp pain in his side, the day's duke or duchess asking after his health with fake concern. And after breathing in nothing but the rank air of a windowless place for the length of a morning, his head had started to pound, too. 

"In case you might be tired after interrogating a man for hours, there is a tray in your quarters."

Well, that was a needlessly roundabout way of putting it. “What, it materialized there on its own?”

He didn’t  _ need  _ Lorenz to admit to it. He already knew that Lorenz’s innate perfectionism and the meticulous standards he applied to himself translated themselves to a thoughtful and attentive nature towards those to whom he extended his attentions, be it his lifelong friends or a soldier in need of employment whose parents had died in his lands. 

Or his ill-conceived husband. 

“Yes, exactly.” Lorenz tilted his chin up. Claude didn’t need him to admit to it, but he couldn’t help enjoying the silent battle that, though shorter than a minute, may have been the highlight of his day. Lorenz gave up and said, “Fine. I had one of my attendants carry it to your rooms. In case.” And with that he set his jaw. 

Not even those long days of convalescence away from Lorenz, when once not so long ago not a day went by without them seeing each other, had led Claude to forget what he’d already learned. 

Claude felt his lips twitching. "Of course you did." It came sounding quieter than he’d intended, but Lorenz was close enough to catch it. Though free of surprise, Claude heard, in his own voice, a certain weight. Not quite amusement and not quite gratitude. Something both. Something else, on the edge. It seemed to smother the air around them so that the comings and goings of the courtyard dimmed and muted, becoming expendable and uninteresting. 

Whatever Lorenz heard made him touch a hand to his hair. He stopped when he realized he was doing it. "Ye-es." Lorenz cleared his throat. “I did.” His eyes fleeted away and back. "The dark, airless dungeons are not conducive to recovery. The healer certainly did not think so, almost marched down in an attempt to guarantee your early return to bed. And after indulging the, I am sure, imperative urge to compromise your healing senselessly and suffering such a stale place and oppressive atmosphere for hours on end, you must be fit to have developed a headache. Not that I am wishing it upon you." With wide eyes. Then, "I gathered that the jostle of the court during lunch would not be the...better companion. In case you did have one.” He managed to sound both defensive and indignant; neither with his usual impersonal and flawless poise. It was a bit dizzying, watching something like reticent tentativeness color that long-winded speech; this was Lorenz—composed and commonsensical Lorenz. Claude was about to grin and ruin it, and tried not to. “There is this minstrel arrived yesterday who insists on playing Adrestian arias. He does not excel at it. And Lady Emmeline sometimes insists on accompanying him with her singing. Lysithea said she would either give herself indigestion or us ear bleed."

"Lorenz—" 

"And of course the chairs in the dining room are so rigid, it would be remiss of you to suffer them if your wound yet ails you." Either Claude had forgotten it, or he held himself differently. He appeared to find the embroidered cuff of his sleeve very interesting. For a second, he stopped looking at it to meet Claude’s eyes; and went on to say, without stopping for breath, "Or if you are at risk of internal bleeding, I suppose. And you may not listen to the healer, but the words of a professional bear some weight and after he said all those things— If it is not your wish, of course, I will tell a servant to…" 

"Lorenz," Claude spoke over him, trying to stop him. For a bit, Lorenz continued saying something about not wanting to dictate Claude's meals—he would never presume—until Claude touched his arm to jolt him out of his rambling. "Lorenz!" he said, voice faint with a lightness like laughter, using the grip on his elbow to shake him very slightly. When he got Lorenz’s wide-eyed, breathless attention, he added, "It's fine. I… I appreciate it." It was even the truth. And there was no trace of what he may have thought just a couple of months ago about overbearing nobles or lack of independence. Lorenz's rambling was new. The response in Claude was new, too. It seemed, then, natural to let his hand slide down Lorenz's arm, until he reached Lorenz's hand hanging by his side. Claude had that hand in his as he said, his lips helplessly curving: "A lot. I appreciate that a lot. Thank you."

Lorenz blinked, quickly and more than once. The faint color that had appeared on his cheeks at some point became then, startingly, a wash of red; the change in intensity almost violent in its suddenness. 

Lorenz said, "You're welcome," in a strangled voice. Claude noticed his hand twitching in his, then moving away. 

Lorenz turned on his heel and, in the process causing a stable-boy to overturn a bucket of water on himself in his hurry to make way for his ruler, strode out of the courtyard. 

—

Finishing his meal, some thoughts began to solidify after a week of ambiguous smoke signals. When he thought of the hazy days before he'd been stabbed, which seemed so long ago now, maybe the signals had been there even longer. If voiced aloud, Cyril would have called him paranoid. But he didn’t think Lorenz’s busy schedule was to blame for their lack of contact this past week. Lorenz had not hesitated to join him for meals in his quarters if they had to go over some belated work. There were, and would not be, any signs of him now. 

But the healer arrived to check on him almost on cue. Being prodded was not conducive to contemplation. Claude, at least, managed to get him to admit that the rupture of a blood vessel was highly unlikely—no he did not intend to climb a wall or compete in a horserace as of yet, cross his heart. No, he would not participate in any activities that included standing or moving strenuously for lengthy hours, he promised, or, perish the thought, take a walk if the weather was unpleasant. Or ride a horse altogether. Not until another week passed. 

By the time Claude had gotten the healer to leave, after hastily dressing, he arrived at the council room to see Lorenz already informed of the prisoner's confession, and Hubert and Ferdinand hard at work recalling their troubles with the Agarthans a few years past, and how they had managed to uproot the group of dissidents, which was the reason Claude had asked Lorenz to send for them in the first place. Yet, their presence there meant he could not freely talk to Lorenz about his father, and what was, now and until they had further proof, only his possible involvement. There was no way to catch his eye with Ferdinand's vibrant hair or Hubert's keen glare in the way. Focusing on the Agarthans and Acheron and the measures they needed to take in the immediate future left no occasion for gauging Lorenz's expectations when it came to his father's innocence, mostly his lack thereof—did he believe, or worse, hope, Acheron was the main guilty party? his father manipulated or even blackmailed into something he despised and would have otherwise never engineered? Claude had seen first hand how hard Lorenz had had to push at the admission of his father's treasonous letters for it to come into the open. Whatever this new ruse they were facing was, it accomplished not only its main purpose—gaining time for future plots and hindering Claude's investigation—it must also have upset every reordered space in Lorenz's head, playing a cruel trick with what he had almost come to accept and face in the man who had raised him. Who Lorenz must have loved. There was no  _ still _ or  _ yet _ about it, and wouldn't be. He could imagine nothing his own parents may do that would remove them from his heart so completely, so neatly, that no frayed edges were left to flounder in the wind. 

Whatever the count was, he was, first, Lorenz's father. 

Claude was still going to see this investigation through to the end. 

Not for the first time, he wondered what that would make him in Lorenz's eyes. But for the first time, he didn't like what he realized. 

He wasn’t even close to considering Hubert’s heartfelt, definitely heartfelt, advice about assassination, but he did not think the outcome of a less deadly approach—Count Gloucester behind bars, his misdeeds exposed—would find a warm spot in Lorenz's heart. Less so the man who had wrought it all. 

In the days that followed, he began to regret having asked Hubert and Ferdinand to come, despite their invaluable intel—it allowed them to narrow down the number of Agarthans they were facing and figure out how long ago they must have crossed into the Alliance. There would be no polite way of returning them to their Empress until they heard what Acheron would have to say when the battalion they had sent to arrest him brought him in.

Still, the Adrestian ministers were not entirely responsible of the torrent of silence coming from Lorenz, nor of the careful lengths he went to assure they were never alone; his attendants a permanent part of him, being dragged up and down the stairs in a crowding procession that assured Claude did not feel like talking. 

But his husband could not avoid him forever. Because that was what was happening. It came to him, this great enlightenment as he, of all things, sat in for a portrait. 

One may think, as Cyril had said with what had become his permanent frown, that this was no time for aristocratic fancies. Claude had agreed, but kept to himself, in case Cyril had a consequent change of heart, that the timing of the portrait was, more than likely, Lorenz's idea of procuring him with appropriately restful practices. Only three days to go before the healer stopped considering sitting in at meetings or holding audiences strenuous activity. Seeing as his other alternative was growing mold in his room, he told Cyril, "There's really nothing more we can do until the knights bring Acheron in." Which would take at least a week; though the fair skies would help move things along. And, "At least this will let me figure out what's going on with Lorenz. He can't glide away in the middle of a portrait." 

He can't glide away in the middle of a portrait. 

Claude had arrived at the solar where light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the rich wood of the floor reflected the colors warmly. There had been one opulent chair. The painter had looked at him from behind his rounded glasses and smiled. "Shall we begin?" he'd said. 

“Where’s Lorenz?” 

With a pencil already poised above the blank canvas, the painter blinked at him for a second, then lowered his hand an inch. “His Grace was busy today. But it is very common to do the first sketches separately. There’s no need for you both to sit idle while I work.” Claude let himself drop on the plump chair. Lorenz would be hard-pressed to deny the undeniable. 

“Is there something wrong, your Grace?” 

The way the painter’s eyes disappeared behind the reflective surface of his glasses was wholly hypnotizing and slightly unnerving. “What’s your name?” asked Claude. 

Ignatz worked with quiet determination and keen eyes. Claude’s attempts at conversation ebbed away, his companion’s responses growing distracted as he focused on his brushes and paints. It forced Claude to confront his thoughts and the disappointment sprouted inside him at being sitting there alone without Lorenz. He deemed it chronic boredom, though not even Lysithea’s frequent visits—in which she had refused to leave Derdriu despite Claude’s cajoling—and even Hilda and Marianne’s unexpected one had managed to drive his mind away from Lorenz. They’d had cakes and talked and Claude had found, for the space of an afternoon, his thoughts not fluttering around intrigues and spies and attempts at his life; yet whenever the conversation turned towards Lorenz, and it often did, a stark absence made itself felt in the room. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the work Lorenz was doing, he had gotten the reports, thank you Lorenz’s attendant. 

So why was it that he felt Lorenz’s avoidance so acutely? Was it just habit, that led him to read some lackadaisical statement in a trade agreement and seek his gaze to see the spark of improper amusement the second it was allowed its flare before he moved on with work? But of course there in his room was only Cyril. He had looked at him with quirked brows when Claude had met his gaze and felt for a moment bewildered, expecting a different pair of eyes. 

The place he and Lorenz had stood in during those few minutes after Claude recovered consciousness had been banished, willfully and purposely. It had seemed, for a span of, maybe, months now, that the box they had put themselves in for their ambition had sprouted vines and roots, life that tore its hinges open and allowed their relationship to expand. If Lorenz was the one with the shears in his hands, Claude was not naive enough to think someone other than himself had put them there: He had woken, in a cloud of memories and pain after being stabbed, and spoken the first words that came to his head. He knew what words those had been—what language. What he had been foolish in hoping was that Lorenz had not adamantly pursued, later—when he was done looking after his convalescent husband—the flash of confusion and frown of weak recognition clear in his face after Claude’s words. 

He wondered if Cyril would start frantically packing if he told him Lorenz may have found out that he was Almyran. 

“...Grace? Your Grace, can you hear me?” 

Claude blinked Ignatz into focus. His head was poking from behind the easel. “Yes?” 

“Could you not, um. That is, your expression is slightly… I believe a more relaxed mien would suit the portrait better, if your Grace agrees, of course.”

In his brow, only now he noticed the pulled muscles, tensed into a frown. “Ah, my apologies.” Claude chuckled. “One of those resting faces.” It sounded a poor excuse even to his ears. 

But Ignatz went back to his work after a word of appreciation, content with Claude's pleasanter expression, not a hint of interest for his concerns in his manner. 

Claude found it, somewhat justifiably, harder to remain content with that lapsus. Since when did he go about frowning because his thoughts were muddled. As such, it proved imperative to keep his thoughts out of his face. And Claude knew how to shed attention. “So, how do you know Lorenz? He said that the portrait took so long because he wanted your services specifically.” 

“Oh! That’s just like him. I cannot regret enough my being away in Faerghus visiting a friend when his letter arrived. It takes so long to arrange for travel during a Faerghus winter,” he sighed. Then, brightening, “But I am honored that Lorenz, that is, his Grace, thought of me.” 

“It sounds like you’ve known each other long,” Claude hedged. 

“Yes, you discern accurately, your Grace. In truth, I don’t know that I would be a painter if it weren’t for him. My family is one of merchants, you see, and have for long worked in Gloucester lands. We were but teenagers, Lorenz and I, when he saw one of my drawings—a silly thing, must have been, back then—and took an interest. My parents, who had disapproved of my hobby, saw my ambitions with other eyes when a lord asked for a commission, a very well paid commission, of a cover for his self-published poetry book.”

“His self-published poetry book.” It was hard to sound only moderately interested.

“He only made two copies, one for his mother and one for him, but it was—" His eyes widened. "I am not sure I should be telling you this.” 

But Ignatz admitted, after some adept coaxing, that the poetry collection had been titled  _ A Garden of Words _ , or something similar. He conceded, with proper solemnity, that each poem had been named after a flower. The portrait he painted in his words of Countess Gloucester and her motherly, earnest joy when Lorenz had presented her with the book made Claude want to meet her, or ask Lorenz about her. She was ill, could not travel—that was what Lorenz had, not enthusiastically, spoken of her when Claude had pressed. Maybe someday he’d know more. But in the meantime, he could picture all too clearly a younger, lankier Lorenz, barely able to hide his excitement as he rarely allowed now...

“Oh!” Ignatz startled them both. “Now you're smiling! Yes, if you could keep looking like that for some minutes longer, Your Grace, I will be done with this first likeness shortly and...” 

Even before Ignatz’s voice had trailed off, Claude felt the frown back in place—a bewildered line more than any real tension. But there it was. He sighed and tried to smooth it over, and stitched his lips closed until Ignatz said his goodbyes. “Until I need you and Lorenz at the same time, for the finishing touch.” 

Claude thought, but not did say, that he may have to wait a long time for that. His endeavors towards catching Lorenz alone were proving how badly he had underestimated Lorenz’s ability to drag innocent souls into his struggles. Claude had invited himself to tea with Lorenz that afternoon, and arrived at the garden gazebo to find Lysithea there as well, not eager about rose petal blend. 

She said, once Lorenz had made some excuses and, either burned the roof of his mouth, or thrown his favorite tea over his shoulder before rising to leave, “Ok, I can’t stand it anymore. What have you done? Why is he avoiding you?”

He tore his gaze away from the line of Lorenz’s retreating back. “What?” 

“Do you know how many times,” she hissed, “he has gone on and on about proper teatime conduct and the exact length of it, even if you hate the taste of leaves, or there are no sweets, or the company is atrocious?”

“Um. I can’t say that I have.” Her stare was not to be brokered with. Claude resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Or sigh. “Do you have time to come to my quarters? I’ll…" he grumbled, "try to explain.” 

He explained, once there. To the best of his capabilities. That it was Lysithea, and she already knew of Cyril, made it easier. Still, he found, for the first time, it was not effortless to pluck the words from the air and knit them together in a neat arrangement. The words one has never said before are not there for the taking. Not unless one reaches deep inside for them. 

All she said was, “So you’re Almyran. What does that have to do—” 

“You knew?” 

“Yes.”

Crossing his arms, he turned towards Cyril, sitting by his side around the small table in his anteroom. The place he’d chosen for this great underwhelming. “Cyril? Something to share?” 

“Of course not!" he screeched. "I didn’t tell her!” 

“He didn’t have to. You’re not very subtle. I mean,” she rose a finger, “Cyril is Almyran, and you’ve known each other for a pretty long time, it seems.” Another finger joined the first one, and she was counting: “Lorenz used to endlessly complain about your efforts towards bettering the border without taxing our defenses but depleting them enough to appear as unthreatening as possible. I’m not done,” she added to his intake of protestation. Ruthless, she proceeded, “That dance of yours during New Year’s was  _ not  _ from Fodlan. Your mom left court and, as loathe as I am towards rumors, it was said she did so out of love, and disappeared from Fodlan so completely nobody has ever heard of her again. Except for Judith, who leaves in these long trips every once in a while and comes back with the sun in her skin, tanned like a sea captain. Now I’m done.” 

Claude grasped for words. 

Cyril sputtered, “You told me that was a traditional dance from Faerghus and that I found it so similar to Almyran dances because some ancient minstrel had carried it across the border!” 

“Yes,” Claude grimaced, “you would have looked just like this if I hadn’t altered the truth a bit.”

Cyril scoffed. “What did Lady Judith say?” 

“So, Lady Judith knows,” Lysithea smirked

“Gloating is not ladylike.” To Cyril: “She said nothing. Just squinted a bit. I doubt her knowledge about Almyran dances is very extensive.” 

A moment of respite from all followed. He could finally make himself say, “So...does Lorenz know all that?” 

“The last time we spoke about you—” Lysithea narrowed her eyes at his expression. She said, “He didn’t mention suspecting you. But if you’ve spoken in Almyran… It is an easily recognizable language, if you’ve had some contact with it. And if he has put together  _ all the rest _ , which is not little, well. Is it so bad that he knows?”

“Yes!” Cyril. 

In Claude, though, there was a slow unfolding of every fraction of restraint he had ever used to alter the next word he spoke, or the turn of a sentence, into a thing less than the truth. Into something, as well, less than a lie. He knew when and how to lie, and preferred it to this thick veil that let through but the faintest of insinuations about what lay behind it. He had had no qualms about lying to Lorenz. Not at first. And then he had found himself dancing with him and speaking to him about legends like those his father told him before bedtime, his fingers pressing into a supple cloth he had been weaving around himself for years. There were layers to it now. 

“There is something else,” he said, quiet, looking at his hands on the table. 

“What is it?” Nobody answered her. For a long time, nobody looked at each other, either. As he had just done before, he could for this find words, too. It would make it easier, for the time he had to tell Lorenz. But maybe he should be the first to know. Then, Lysithea said, “How bad can it be? It’s not like you’re the King.”

Under the right circumstances, it could have been funny. Claude would have laughed. Now, the act of lifting his eyes took him a full minute. Lysithea was sputtering some half-formed gasps of indignant shock. 

He answered the weight in her brow, the clench of her jaw that allowed her not to speak. “It should be Lorenz that knows of this first, I know. I thought, if I ever told him—  _ When _ I did… It should be after this whole thing with his father has passed.” 

“Why?”

“If he pushes for an annulment of the marriage—yes, it could be done, in grounds of,” a sigh escaped him, “false identity, at least, probably much more. If we divorce, he will be the sole heir of House Gloucester, alone, in the middle of a scandal that could very well ruin his House. Ruin him. House Riegan is still strong even without me. My grandfather will last a while longer, and he has support—Goneril, Judith, to say the most powerful. They don’t have any lost love for the Count. I don’t think his father cares who he drags down with him, I think if he falls, he will not try to shield the ones that are left—not his wife, not his son.” He trailed off, his throat closing. Arranged together, his particular collection of facts and motives seemed wanting and made of excuses. And the words of someone too used to suspect others. “But if Lorenz is with me—with House Riegan...”

“...you can protect him?” Lysithea asked, for once, softly. She cleared it from her throat. “Is that it?” 

“It’s not as selfless as that,” Claude said, but could not explain why it was so; not to Lysithea, not to himself. He may have been keeping Lorenz safe from his father’s ruin, but Claude doubted he preferred the lies. 

Lysithea’s shock had subdued, not with his words but with something Claude felt he had not willingly shared. But then again, he’d been reminded, repeatedly, that same morning, he had lost his touch with that which he let flutter across his face for all to see.

"I won't insult you by asking what your plans are for Leicester," she said after an unhurried pause. "But it doesn't look good. To possess the blood of Almyran Kings and come rule the Alliance—"

"I know what history has been like." He gave her the humorless curl of his lips, and a one-shouldered shrug."I'm only trying to change its course." 

Slowly, she relaxed enough to scoff at him. 

For a while longer, they chatted about trivial things Claude would not remember later. And then she left with Cyril, and he sat there thinking how to find a way to talk to Lorenz. Alone. 

And, most of all, what to say. 

—

—

The day after Acheron’s interrogation Lorenz went to the stables before dawn. 

Inside, the warmth of the animals stood guard against the drifting cold Lorenz brought with him from the courtyard; their smell familiar and at once soothing. He stopped short in front of an already-saddled Cashmere standing out of her stall, next to a bay mare. A very familiar bay mare. He had picked her, once, as a reluctant wedding present. 

Cashmere saw him first. Impatient, she kicked a hind leg against the stone floor, upsetting a few wisps of stray straw as she blew air through her nostrils. As if on cue, a shadow unstuck itself from the wall and entered the light of the torch. 

“Join me?” Claude asked, picking Cashmere’s reins and offering them to Lorenz. 

There was nothing, in his posture or demeanor, to call to mind that, less than a fortnight ago, he’d almost died. The healer had, the week before, either admitted defeat and left him to his own devices or spoken his professional opinion and released him from his imposition of repose. Since then, not a day had passed that the hissing of arrows through the air and the thud into the targets didn’t rise to Lorenz’s window at dawn. That lapse in stability, that slight trace of faintness Claude had, unwillingly, carried with him while his wound still pained him he had already shed. Lorenz wished he too could leave behind the feeling in his chest he had carried around since that day. 

The loose riding tunic Claude wore clung to his broad shoulders, ladened with furs against the cold of the morning. He looked solid in them, immune to the low temperatures that did not alter his complexion with the sharp bite of the wind, giving the impression of kept warmth. His grin was easy, his shoulders relaxed—but never could he have looked as unvigilant as that night in Lorenz’s room. That was good, that frail privacy would have led Lorenz to forget himself again.

Lorenz did not pretend not to check that Cashmere’s saddle was properly cinched to her, the leather neither loose to chafe nor tight to constrict. Claude tried to hide the knowing smile by swinging a leg over the saddle of his mount, and soon Lorenz was joining him, no careless fault to the saddle or bridle with which to gain time by fussing about it. 

And so they rode in silence, leaving the guards that had accompanied each of them to the stables. Only two of Claude’s mercenaries went with them, far enough behind that the semblance of privacy wouldn’t shatter. On the sky that was leaving black behind to turn azure with the promise of sunlight over them, one lonely star remained. Lorenz refrained from commenting on the rarity of the occasion and his husband’s willingness to get on a horse and picked their route after Claude, solemnly and with half of his mouth curled into a very unsolemn grin, extended an inviting arm. Towards the river outside the gates, creeping towards the west, a small copse of trees had been tamed and made to shelter a graveled path between robust sycamores and weeping willows. At a sedate pace, it would take them a couple of hours to reach the river as the path wove between the trees, with the dawning sun slanting through the foliage overhead. It was not the route Lorenz had intended to ride alone, its scenery better enjoyed in company. Too late he caught this treacherous thought. 

“How did you know I would go riding this morning?” Lorenz finally ventured to ask. 

“Let’s call it a hunch.” Claude said that, and nothing else. 

“Will you be more forthcoming if I ask to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” 

“I may.” A smile. “Can’t I just want to go riding with my husband?”

Lorenz fought not to wince, or clutch the reins too tightly in his fist and transmit to Cashmere the flutter of his pulse. Claude's easy filtrations were not new, but Lorenz could not remember how he had ever received them, or answered them, without even pausing to blink. He couldn't remember a lot of things to do with Claude, not least of them, how to remain unresponsive to his proximity. He did recall how sleep weighted on his eyelids and how the heat of his body had warmed his bed as if a furnace were lit between the sheets. Lorenz had forced himself to leave early those two mornings Claude had slept in his bed, lest Claude find out just how hard it proved to turn away. But they were a team. Claude had said so himself. A reluctant team only joined by Duke Riegan's whim. They could not allow anything to endanger the stability they had reached after months of struggle. Certainly not now when Claude's life was in danger. What they would need in the days to come was the balance of habit and the communion of minds and ideas as they had grown used to. Lorenz would not let his inopportune feelings threaten that stability, even if what once had annoyed him now dug sharply into his breastbone, reminder of that which he could never allow himself to have. Maybe if they could have come to know one another without the embroilment of marriage and court intrigues, if they hadn't met while their families were enemies, if the choice to spend time together had been theirs. Being tied to someone against your will was already straining enough without the added weight of unrequited affection. Not for nothing, they had wordlessly agreed not to let this be any more than a political union. In a moment of weakness Lorenz had allowed to the surface something as damning as a confession, and Claude had made it abundantly clear that if it weren't for his grandfather he would have never agreed to the marriage. Saddling him with Lorenz’s unnecessary feelings would be selfish and dangerous. 

He had been silent too long. "You always have a dozen reasons to do things," he murmured. He hadn't grown up with a foot in court for nothing. Once conscious of the indelibility of his feelings, he had taken the time to rein in his foolish hopes so that once Claude recovered they could return to life as it were. 

Claude conceded with a slow nod. “We also need to talk. I know I called Ferdinand and Hubert to help with the Agarthans, but I'd like to discuss some things in private.” 

“They are leaving tomorrow, surely you could have waited—” 

“C’mon, didn’t you miss me even a little? We haven’t talked, properly talked, in weeks. A couple of them at least.” 

It had been three weeks. Two since he was injured. And the one before when Lorenz had hoped to let wither what he'd foolishly considered a passing fancy. 

Claude went on, oblivious, “I think Cyril will resign if I try to explain to him one more time why the painstaking details in Margrave Edmund’s resentfully passive-aggressive reports are funny.” 

Laughing should have upset the careful arrangement he'd made of the unwanted fragments he'd found himself with, but he still did it, and it was almost easy, more a disconcerting earthquake than the trampling he'd feared. The relationship they had now was the best they could aspire to: an equal standing in which they knew enough about each other to work together in a pleasant atmosphere that allowed them moments like this. To ask for more… 

In the shelter of the forest sprawling to the south of Gloucester estate, there was a lake. It started to ice towards the end of autumn and by the time winter was in its cusp it was solid enough to support skating. But, his mother had taught him, one must check each step, stay close to the edge of it, no matter the time of year. Even in winter, the water may rise through a weaker patch of ice to swallow you up if you weren’t careful, leaving you frozen and gasping for breath. With every footfall of their horses, every word spoken, every glance he couldn’t stop himself from stealing, he felt the ice cracking under him, near enough to the heartstopping embrace of water. But, if he was careful, he’d get to the other side. 

“Do you believe what Acheron said?" Lorenz asked, foolishly. Claude had always suspected his father. Acheron's confession then, and his frantic words to exculpate himself and point an accusing finger Count Gloucester's direction, must not have been a surprise for him, or even something to consider. 

Lorenz had felt nauseous at Acheron's explanation of how his father had promised him riches and a better standing at court if he did as he was bid, which included procuring a cook with sleeping powders and acting as middle man to the group of Agarthans sent to kill Claude. But, and this was what had kept him up most of the night, there had been no real strength left in him for shock. He believed he had come to accept his father's actions after Claude was attacked. The unquestioning loyalty you gave someone, even if it was a loyalty taught and not ever really earned, had its limits. He had raked through his mind for any other leads and found none with the standing and power, nor the ambition, nor the motives. None with ashes from burned evidence in his fireplace. All there was left, then, for the incessant doubts and nights in which fear paralyzed him to end, was for the Minister to return and hear Acheron's confession. He didn't know fear of what it was that coiled so cold inside him, but it grew as the time to face his father approached and he remembered not one occasion in which he had stood up to him, even in inconsequential things like those times his father had insisted he courted the ladies of his choosing. Or when he had sent him away before Godfrey visited one their estate. The last time he would ever visit anywhere. Lorenz had wanted the honor of escorting the future leader of the Alliance, and he had fought not at all when his father had said no. If he had, maybe Godfrey would be alive. 

Claude was looking at him. "I do think, in this, Acheron was truthful. It matches what we know of the cook he blackmailed. And though he gave the orders, he doesn't have the money to pay the Agarthans. We checked his accounts." He had spoken softly, like Lorenz was a spooked horse. 

"This is it, then," he said, briskly. He didn't want Claude's pity. "I will be writing to the Minister of Justice later in the day. It will not take her long to get here. After we meet and she is updated on the situation I will dispatch a battalion for my father’s arrest. " 

"I can…"

"No. I must do this myself." He said, because he hadn't meant to sound so sharp, "But thank you."

After some time, Claude said, "Acheron knew, too, of the poison in your wine."

Lorenz half swung in his saddle to meet his eyes. "When did you ask him?" 

"After you left. After Hubert and Ferdinand left." He sounded so sedate. Lorenz had wanted him serious and moderated on so many occasions and now the set of his jaw seemed wrong. "I thought you should know. You can ask him," he added gently, "if you don't believe me."

"I do believe you," Lorenz admitted in a thin voice. "I had already made my peace with it. It cannot even shock me," he sighed. "My father"—his voice faltered—"is guilty of it all."

Claude, subdued, nodded. 

And then he spurred his mount to bar Lorenz's way. Lorenz drew on the reins so sharply Cashmere tensed, for a worrying moment, almost reared up.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. 

"For what it's worth," Claude said. "I'm sorry for the part I played." 

Lorenz gaped at him. "You almost died. Do not be ridiculous." Then, because Claude was still barring the way, "I do not want your apologies, I mean it." And he maneuvered Cashmere around him. 

They rode in rigid silence at least half the way. He kept hoping for Claude to break the quiet and in the end it was up to him, and he had to hear himself parroting about inane court gossip until they found their step. Then Claude started whistling a silly tune that made Cashmere's ears twitch, and Lorenz breathed easy. 

For a while. 

The clouds had caged the sun almost whole. But it seemed the grey skies would not last past noon. The first pool of light they came across fell on a bush barely pushing past the unforgiving grasp of winter; snow had long ago melted, yet at night, the surface of the pond in the palace gardens froze over. One flower alone leaned up, open and waiting, among its drooping peers. Despite its plainness, it caught the eye, its the sole bright color that bloomed out of its dew-permeated bud among the grayness. He realized Claude had fallen silent, and raised his eyes in time to see him spur his mare on and, without falling off his saddle, slide down her side enough to pick up the flower and seamlessly return to his upright position, not a hair out of place. He hadn’t even reined in his horse beside the shrub but kept her at a brisk pace until they were again abreast of Lorenz. 

Lorenz’s eyes narrowed. 

“A pretty flower for your thoughts?” 

From up close, you could better see its colors. What had seemed white showing, in the deepest part of the calyx and around the whorl of the corona, a dab of purple, but soft and diluted, like a drop of wax. Their hands did not touch when Lorenz accepted it. Conscious of Claude’s stare, he put it in Cashmere’s braid. “Morning glories are considered a weed,” he observed, “but thank you.”

Claude raised an amused eyebrow. “It wasn’t for her.” 

“Wasn’t it?” Lorenz feigned surprise, fighting the pang of hope tinged with bitterness that clamored like a bell under Claude's attentions. “The next one, then," he added, confident in winter's ruthlessness. Anxious to get Claude's eyes off him, he moved to set Cashmere at a canter. 

In front of Claude, he had already managed to blunder through a conversation with half-formed sentences and a propensity to blushing. But he would not be caught unprepared again. Claude had sent him pastries even before they liked each other, whatever weeds he gave him now did not mean anything. 

Their newly set pace was fast enough to feel the bite of the wind and the joy of two mares used to energetic activity. But conversation remained easy. They rode close together that the wind stole not words, but inflections and expressions. Claude was not the only one who could engineer his surroundings. 

"Is this a good time to tell you that my grandfather wrote to tell he's coming to visit?" Claude called over his shoulder. 

"Duke Riegan? He is coming now?  _ Now?” _

“Well, not precisely at this time, but I received a letter dated two days ago that said he was parting from Riegan territory.” 

“Goddess. Does he expect us to have prepared anything for him? There is no time— And his health!”

“Relax. I think he just misses the court?” 

“Did you tell him about...”

“He knows what the general public knows about Acheron's arrest.” He leveled Lorenz with a quirked brow. “Lorenz, relax. He abdicated. If he doesn’t like what he finds, or that we are too busy for his sudden visit, he can get in line to overthrow us. It's already a long enough line, what's one more.”

Lorenz narrowed his eyes in his general direction, bereft of surprise at the scandalous words. “Oh, hilarious.” 

“Please. I think I can see a vein about to pop at your temple."

He found he had automatically drawn a hand to cover the side of his head. Lorenz frowned, pulling his hand back. “You cannot.”

Claude's laughter sounded different outdoors. It had no corners to coil into or walls to ricochet on, instead it curled skywards with the tilt of his head. The wind stole it away far too quickly. But his next words came straight to Lorenz. "I am far too young to be a widower." 

He felt his lips twitching despite himself, forgetting the somber foreboding in his chest from earlier that morning. 

The next words died in his mouth when Lorenz saw the next morning glory. This bush was smaller than the other, the flower sprouting at knee-length as the shrub clung to the base of a thick trunk. Surely Claude would not go for it; it was too low, too small. Lorenz slowed down, unthinking, while Claude swooshed past him, touching the spurs to his mount without any intention of stopping. There was, then, no doubting his keen eyes had landed on the flower, and what his goal was. And this time, Lorenz properly saw his form. This time, Claude was going much faster; he still picked up the flower that grew on the side of the path, inches from the ground. Lorenz watched how he grabbed onto the reins one-handed, leather coiled around his wrist as to not pull any strain on the bridle and bruise the mare's mouth and upset her neck. Most of his strength was focused on his capable thighs, his balance on his lower body. There were foreign games like that. No. Not any foreign games. Almyran games. They didn't pick flowers but short javelins and while trotting around an established circuit, without ever stopping, threw them at the target standing in the middle of the arena. Lorenz had thought, upon first hearing of these games, of the strain on the horse's ribcage and the danger to his spine, if one threw themself sideways to grab an object close to the ground, but if it was done like this, with the body in a slightly forward position, one foot off the stirrup... Claude uprighted himself in a smooth movement that reminded Lorenz Failnaught was a longbow Claude shoot no less than twenty times each morning; and that while recovering his strength. He cantered back towards Lorenz, his horse neither unbalanced nor upset by the maneuver, but unwearied and, when Claude halted in front of Lorenz, stubborn to stop after so little exercise.

All of it spoke of a familiarity with horses, the weight they could be made to hold and a position to do so that would not hurt them. It spoke of an experience Lorenz had thought Claude had refused multiple times. Had he? Or had he only hedged about it making ambiguous claims that suited his penchant for obscurity? Lorenz thought about this knowledge he'd been given and fought not to wonder about the reason. He knew he could not analyze it properly until he was alone. As Claude came back, he was a bit windswept, eyes greener than the foliage around them. He blew any traces of dust and morning dew from the flower. 

This time, Lorenz distractedly put it in his lapel. "What was that?" he asked, faintly. He felt like he'd been the one to perform, his voice breathless. 

"What was what?" 

"You can ride."

_ Almost better than I can,  _ he did not say, because there may not have been an  _ almost _ ; Claude may as well have been better. Lorenz could not have done that maneuver, he had never practiced it.

"I," said Claude. 

Lorenz never learned whether he'd let himself be caught on purpose, for some unfathomable reason, or if he'd truly forgotten his previous charade the day after the wedding when he'd made himself look like a man who had never taken a riding lesson seriously. But Claude recovered shortly. He came closer, maneuvering so that their mares would not collide. 

"I only ever said I was unfamiliar with the lay of the land, I think." And he gave an apologetic smile, eyes wrinkling; endearingly, Lorenz failed to not think. To Lorenz's bemusement, he went on. "All Judith remembers of me on a horse is how much I whined about it when I was little. She thought I'd make a mess of things, and that trail was very long and without you talking, very boring. I thought why not?" He was fiddling with the reins. Lorenz watched his hands and the stripe where the leather had dug and reddened the skin. "I know it was very un-leader like."

He had pretended to ride badly to amuse himself and get a rise out of Lorenz. It was almost enough to fuel the smothered fire of his anger from that day so long ago. Which had been indeed a roaring fury, set on finding the barest of faults in his new husband. If it hadn't been his riding, it would have been something else. He almost winced, because Claude probably knew that. In fact, that was probably why he'd done it.

"I still think horses jostle too much and I haven't ridden in years," he admitted. "But I did learn. My father made sure of it," he grinned, "and I was not too bad—I may be a little rusty now though. And because of him, and I will deny I ever said this, I grew to even like it, at times. I remember riding with him at dusk, after he'd finished his duties. There's this wide, wide valley, greenest I've ever seen. The mountains that surround it shade the worst of the heat in summer from it, and it was ours until the sun set. There are wild horses still there, so different from what we are used to. You’d like it, I think, if you ever saw it."

"I would?" Lorenz asked, dazed.

Claude returned his look. There was something curling his lips other than a smile; it softened his eyes. "I think so," he said. "And I've seen you ride. You could give my father a run for his money. I think  _ I' _ d enjoy that." 

There was no script for this. Even if Lorenz's heart hadn't begun the morning ride somersaulting, he wouldn't know what to say. It was the first time Claude talked about his father. It was unthinkable that Claude had thought about Lorenz meeting his father—that Claude  _ wanted _ Lorenz to meet his father—whose identity he'd gone to great lengths to hide. 

Their knees brushed against each other as Claude moved forward. 

His father, who must be the person who taught him to ride like that and the exercise suited for a sport Lorenz's knowledge told him was only extensively played in Almyra. The man who must have been the black hair, the thick beard and the dark skin to Lady Tiana's green eyes, short height and penchant for bows. The man who spoke Almyran to him so he grew to turn to it amidst waking confused in a place far from home. 

With a light touch, barely felt, Claude retrieved the morning glory from Lorenz's jacket. Lorenz startled, and forced himself not to move. Because his hair was shorter on the left side, and he always fixed it behind his ear, where the stem now went, the dewy petals cooled his cheek with a press of soft velvet, while the stripe of skin Claude's knuckles brushed burned with the touch. 

Claude was looking at him like he'd asked a question for which Lorenz had not given an answer yet. Even if Lorenz had heard him, the moment felt too fragile for words. He couldn't fault himself for more painful hoping when Claude looked at him like that, could he? The fleeting lights sliding through the boughs of trees spilled between them, moved as if with their breathing. That night in Lorenz's bedroom, it had felt like this. The same querulous stillness. Until Claude had reminded him of the nature of their union—how he still viewed it as an obligation, and why wouldn't he? But Claude wasn't cracking any jokes, blindsiding Lorenz with clever retorts to remind him of their circumstances. They were just two men who may have been courting. It allowed Lorenz a flash of how it could be. It was so easy to picture, they already lived together, saw each other every day. 

And in that, he realized as well what he could lose. The Gloucester estate didn't have a fully-staffed house off the main residence for nothing. 

Lorenz tore his gaze away first. Claude's mare sighed heavily through her nose, breaking the spell, and shook her head to one side like someone had pulled at her reins. But when Lorenz looked back, she, and her rider, were standing utterly still, caught between the moving shadows stirring in the morning breeze. 

He heard Claude clearing his throat. 

Then Claude said, “I think we should go back." There was something slightly widening his eyes, but he moved before Lorenz could attempt to unearth the reason for it, or for the sudden change of plans. Claude separated their horses with a firm pull on the reins, looking ahead. "Lots to do.”

He didn't whistle again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!!  
> I hope there are some of you still interested in this story! Know that I am still (slowly) finishing it and I don't plan to abandon it. Thanks for reading and for your support <3


	11. XI

Claude knew he tended to get too caught up around easy banter and beautiful people with sharp tongues, the results either disastrous or delectable—depending on your point of view—but he’d never thought to take care around Lorenz. He was his husband, and Lorenz had hated him since their meeting. Claude had meant neither of those to happen, yet had taken them in stride and looked on the bright side: one without the other would have presented disaster. 

Their teamwork would never have been possible without something joining them, keeping them butting heads until they realized each other’s worth—and Lorenz’s had been evident almost since the beginning: the aristocratic pride bolstering not baseless convictions, but a genuine wish to do good, with the right ideas to do so and the confidence to, after much laboring, accept a second opinion. Towards Lorenz’s lofty standards, he had never felt anything other than the thrill of challenge, the rewards of effort met by effort. 

And their marriage alone, without Lorenz’s obvious vitriol, could have smothered them into a confusing spiral of emotions, because Lorenz was tall and lithe of limbs, the lines of his torso tapering into an unfairly narrow waist, his fine cheekbones pressed just beneath the ivory skin. And Claude, despite all the barriers of deception, was not immune; was only a man with keen eyes. Except that it all became manageable if Lorenz hated him, because there was no way of fooling himself into thinking Lorenz would ever look at him with anything but contempt. It had seemed that, at least, would remain uncomplicated. And Claude had had more important things on his mind. 

But Lorenz did not hate him anymore. If anything else escaped him, he at least knew that. Between them there were the conversations without need of words, the long courtly dinners he’d come to not only enjoy but look forward to just because Lorenz had started giving him honest conversation. What had been once a coverup for the court now the undeniable truth. He had enjoyed it too much—peeling away the layers until Lorenz had revealed what lay beneath the proper armor of nobility. So, he could only blame himself now that he had discovered—through sheer stubbornness and damned inquisitiveness—the coldness hid a caring man protective of his friends, the arrogance a fierce capability to lead a nation, the sharp tongue a sweet, shy nature only encountered, so far, under duress, in the privacy of his rooms at night. 

He’d put a flower in his hair. A weed, whatever. For Gods’ sake. 

That was not what Judith had meant when she’d told him to get along. 

He had only meant to stop Lorenz's streak of avoidance. Maybe gauge how much Lorenz had discerned about his origins and, most of all, ease the way between them toward the place they had occupied before the attack. He had chosen the early morning for its privacy, the ride for Lorenz's tastes. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of harsh cold wind become color and warmth upon Lorenz's rosy cheeks. 

And if that had been all, he could have countered it, with time and the knowledge that sleek hair and long legs could be found elsewhere that was simpler. But, worse than realizing you had memorized the perfect shape of your beautiful husband’s lips was the immediate next utter failure to separate any part of him from the whole. For a heart-stopping second, he’d ached for all that Lorenz had unknowingly revealed to him: all of his hard-won smiles, made incredibly sweeter by the stiff sense of humor lying underneath; all that dedicated diligence to his work that, with every ounce of well-bred Gloucester pride in him, became bullheadedness whenever he applied it to anything else. But for all the months that had taken him to discover it, slow and unbending time would not extend its patient hand again, not to this new feeling in his chest. A neat sequence of events would not follow, for the time of unhurried discoveries was over. All at once, the warmth of Lorenz’s body, his skin soft like ripe fruit, the shape of his waist under Claude’s hands; in the space held between their eyes that early morning, the possibilities had unfurled, with Lorenz’s eyes widening, his head tipping, ever-so-slightly, into Claude’s touch when he'd put the flower behind his ear.

He'd meant to covertly talk about Almyra to measure the extension of Lorenz's knowledge and instead spilled all over. Not an alarm in his head to heed for caution or distinguish the moment he had gone over the edge of detached, uncomplicated sharing to an aftermath that left him reeling, seeing Lorenz in a sea of green with mountains in the background. A warning would have been nice. A tension in the thread between them so that he knew when to stop pulling—he’d managed to unspun all of himself right into Lorenz’s waiting hands. 

And Lorenz had looked away. 

For Claude, there was no separating, from the rest, the piece of time that had changed everything. He’d found not the seed in the marrow of his bones but the strong roots already coiled tight inside.

But for Lorenz, it may have been different.

His whole life he had wanted for something. He had grown up in a place where nobody really was like him and nobody really understood. Discovering the world lying behind the impregnable mountains was the same—narrow-minded, uncomprehending, blind—had brought purpose to a life until then brimming with aimless ideals. 

But, his whole life he had wanted for something, and he’d grown so used to the feeling he had failed to realize the added weight to it until it was too late; now, not even erasing every border line in every map would satisfy him. The moment Lorenz looked away from him, his lips set into a decisive line, he knew he would be left to always wander that place in time, carved with the possibilities of what it could have been. But, if he sometimes made rash decisions, he could trust Lorenz to make the conscientious corrections. And Lorenz had not wanted to follow the shapes of their breaths misting in the cold morning air. And Claude learned to be grateful for it. For all that Claude felt he had already shared too much of himself, far more than he was used to, Lorenz still knew not enough to allow anything to happen between them. 

A whispered voice in his head kept saying,  _ Not yet.  _

Not yet. 

—

In the days that followed, there were times they retraced the path that had once seen them working side by side with only Leicester in mind. After Ferdinand and Hubert left, there were lots to do. With Acheron and his confession had arrived also every one of his letters: a fast-flowing current of proof against Count Gloucester. Going over an overzealous, bitter man’s correspondence proved more fun than Claude would have expected. Lorenz was not avoiding him anymore, and that helped, though Claude learned to understand the appeal of evasion: their togetherness had mutated. Now grown heavier and unbalanced so that one moment they were enjoying each other’s company, and the next a certain quiet, by-then familiar, had settled over them. In that quiet it was when it seemed unimaginable that he could not reach one inch further and take Lorenz’s hand to his lips. Lorenz seemed to know how to avoid that tender closeness better. It was Claude who found himself with all the pieces in his hands after blundering through; a teasing comment, or a joke, or a casual touch which he would not have thought of twice before, that now he had to clumsily cut in the middle.

Lorenz never mentioned it, only grew quieter when it happened. 

And it only ever happened when they were alone, certainly never during the crowded lunches where Judith sat close to them and may have seen it. Still, she had been back less than two days when she knocked on his door and let herself in and, once Claude had shooed his attendants away, said, "Something to tell me?" 

He stared at her.

(It was true, what Lysithea said. She had come back with her skin tanned. In Almyra, though not summer yet, the sun would shine much stronger than it did here in Derdriu, its rays still lazy.)

She lost her patience. "You were attacked, and I have to hear it from Lady Hilda?" 

Ah, she meant that.

"I'm fine," he said, trying to hide the relief at the turn of the conversation. "You were already on a wyvern's back. Bit hard to send a letter." 

"Bit hard to make your mother stay away if she discovered it, you mean." 

"Mm? What's that? My mother had something for you to tell me? How is she, now that you bring her up?" 

She sighed. She rose from the chair and bid Claude do the same. One hand on his shoulder, she looked him up and down. "I really couldn't face your mother if anything happened to you." She tousled his hair like he was a child. "You are alright, truly?" 

He rolled his eyes. "Peachy." 

"I can't leave you alone for one minute." She shook her head. "I hope you do not attempt one ounce of protest at my staying here in the near future."

"There might be one ounce if you mean my anteroom." He widened his eyes. "What would my husband say?" 

It was his fault, then. He'd brought Lorenz up. Judith said, "Speaking of." She took something from her coat pocket. A small box clad in velvet. "Your mother wanted me to give you this. In case you needed it." 

It was too small a box for a dagger or any other lethal weapon Tiana may have thought he'd need in this place where she grew up and which she always called a nest of vipers. And she had already given him plenty of sharp knives before his leaving Almyra. He opened it, not a clue as to its contents. 

It was yet early afternoon. He'd had his curtains drawn to let the sun in. Inside the box its light shimmered, for a second blinding. 

Claude closed the box with a sharp clack. "I see she has not lost her sense of humor." 

It was bad timing that made it rankle. He would have shared in the joke some other time. Not now. But Tiana would never have expected her son to let his guard down enough to fall in love with the man he'd had to marry. 

"Boy?" 

"What?" he bit out, trying for pleasant.

"She said to remind you not to be like your father and explain what the gift actually means when you give it."

"It's not a gift." 

"Right. I still don't understand that."

"It doesn't matter, I'm not giving it to anyone. Here, why don't you take it back the next time you go see Tiana? I'm not going to… it was a funny joke but I will probably lose it and who wants to be the guy to lose a family heirloom?" 

"You forget. I'm not leaving your side until you leave this place. Or until you arrest Count Gloucester." 

"I'm working on that," he muttered. 

"What's wrong? You act like the box will burn a hole in your pocket if you carry it around." She had narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes, of course." 

Maybe if he hid the box in the last drawer of the dresser, under the dusty wedding garments he wouldn't use again, he'd forget about the weight of what was inside. 

Maybe. 

—

The Minister of Justice arrived one late afternoon a week after, at last answering Lorenz's summons.

That one a meeting long in coming. 

Claude remembered the woman who’d gone to Riegan’s keep about a week after his first Roundtable. Either her title had molded her personality, or she had been born for the job, with her austere, neutral exterior and the blunt attentiveness with which she had listened to all his spies had gathered about Count Gloucester and Godfrey’s death. 

First Claude, and then too Lorenz, had counted on her to carry out to the end the Count’s investigation, and now they had more proof for her to add to the pile she must have collected in the months she had been working. 

That was the spirit they received her in. Lorenz had arrived with dark circles under his eyes, but the stiff line his shoulders had acquired since the assassination attempt had seemed, from the distance Claude painstakingly kept, less. Not yet the relaxed posture of acceptance, because his father’s actions had wounded him more than he let on, and Acheron’s confession added to the weight on his shoulders. But after the meeting, it would be over. Claude could handle the arrest and let Lorenz rest, and the trial would be out of their hands, up to the heads of the houses that formed the Roundtable. 

Had it been Nader the one to tell him that children’s tale of the young milkmaid who spilled her day’s work because she was too distracted imagining what she’d do with the money once she sold her milk at the market? 

“I regret,” the Minister said, in the flat voice Claude remembered, “to inform you that no ill-tidings were found regarding the accusations to Count Gloucester’s person. My assistants and I carried our investigation both at the Gloucester estate and the manor here in Derdriu, with his utmost cooperation, and have nothing untoward to report of his documents, reports and letters.” 

“You've got to be kidding me."

She was not. She ensnared Claude too readily with countless reports, refusing to budge or take into consideration Acheron’s correspondence to the Count, claiming Acheron was only trying to shed the responsibility he’d had in a conspiracy which had been all of his own making. And nothing of which he said changed her mind. Her investigation had been relentless, she said. Her methods rigorous. She had taken no breaks, allowed no vacations and sanctioned no rest until the truth was in her hands, she said. 

She hadn’t even bothered to interrogate Acheron herself. 

Lorenz did not speak. The color had left his face, and he seemed not to hear either Claude’s arguments or the Minister as she refuted him. He kept staring at her, at first uncomprehending like Claude, and then, almost with a visible start, with a sickened expression. Claude lost the thread of the discussion, his attention deserting him and setting after Lorenz. 

He touched his hand, frozen with the pen half slipping from his grasp. “Lorenz, what’s wrong?” he asked, softly. 

He had startled him. When he met his gaze, there was something frantic swimming in his eyes. But every sentence he started faltered before it breached his lips. Claude tightened his grip around his hand. 

“If my services are required again,” the Minister was saying, starting to pick up her things. 

Then, “Maybe she is right,” Lorenz said. 

“What?”

Whatever foreboding the Minister had not instilled in Claude, with her words and statements, this did. He could find another way to push through. They didn’t need the Minister to back them up in their decisions, not as leaders. Godfrey’s murder would not be solved and the deeds of Count Gloucester not known across the Alliance, but the fear, the insecurity, the attacks could be over if they arrested him, the power of the Knights behind them. But losing Lorenz’s support? 

He leaned back in his chair, his hand slipping from atop Lorenz’s. 

He would still do it, even on his own, the way he’d started it, but upon first hearing Lorenz he felt crippled. He would still do it, but another assassin sent after him, another fire in his rooms, would not have sent the cold wave of hopelessness over him that this did. 

And then Lorenz was the one grabbing him, keeping his hand in his. 

“The Minister diligently investigated my father for months,” Lorenz said, choosing each word and not looking away from him. “Claude, listen to me, please. I know what I am saying does not make sense, but I need you to understand." His voice was careful, like he knew what he was doing to him. Or like he was trying to tell him something beyond words. "Would my father be able to fool the Minister and her rigorous assistants? For so long, they investigated the estate…" Lorenz had tried to convince him of a lot of things these past months. Never had he looked this pressured, not even with all the council members' eyes on him. "The Minister could not even come to Derdriu to,” Lorenz’s fingers dug, hard, in his hand, “celebrate the New Year’s. I think we should show some respect for her hard work.”

Claude blinked. 

A blurring of the lights as he spun around with Lorenz in his arms. The hint of silver in Lorenz's hair he had not hesitated to pluck. But before that—

He could have kissed him. He would have asked him to marry him if they weren’t already married. How had he missed it? He had to take a moment to gather everything that had happened in the last minute. Lorenz’s words, however false, had touched and dislodged something he thought safe. Not many people were aware of his plans, none shared their burden. But in this one, Lorenz carried half the weight, if not more. To find himself suddenly alone had almost unbalanced him. 

Lorenz’s slender fingers were still conveying what he could not say aloud. One roaming fingertip, no longer frantic now Claude shared Lorenz’s understanding, brushed its soothing touch across the inside of Claude’s wrist, in apology. Claude got ahold of himself and managed to grin at him before rising and stopping the busy Minister in her tracks. 

“Let me get the door for you,” he offered, jovial. “My husband is right, such hard work must not be overlooked. I will get back to you after reading your reports.” And as he shook her hand in the doorway, “It truly was a shame you missed New Year’s ball.” 

A look of confusion fleeted across the perfectly recreated face. Had they gotten it all wrong? But: “...Yes. I was busy.” Flawless smile. With the same small teeth and pink gums and the exact jut of her upper lip. “My work is very demanding.” 

It was uncanny. Claude swallowed to clear his dry throat and hoped his voice didn’t falter. “Let’s hope next time is the winner.” 

And she was gone. He made sure the door stayed closed and leaned his hands on it for a long time until his heart settled back into his chest. Then all the nervous energy came out as untimely excitement. “I can’t believe you noticed. You’re a genius, Lorenz. I admit I did not believe those tales Ferdinand and Hubert told. Clones? Shapeshifters? It was supposed to be  _ rumors. _ We should write to tell them they were right. I know this is a setback, but I promise you we will find another....” 

When he turned around, he found not Lorenz but a sculpture of him. Frozen in the place where he'd risen to his feet, sight lost on the table covered in papers, garnering the failures there. 

"Lorenz?"

At his voice, life returned. A semblance of it. He stacked a neat pile of the documents the Minister had brought and left fanned out on the table. Then, he set a trembling hand over them. Documents he must have hoped to receive, once upon a time before Count Gloucester showed him his true colors. Claude did not startle as it happened: one second later, the sheaf of papers flung across the table, scattered on the carpet, fluttered in the air. 

“Do you think he killed her before or after he tried to kill you?" His voice was a hollow of what Claude knew. "How many people must die before…” he trailed off, holding his elbows and looking impossibly lost. 

Claude walked to him. “Lorenz. It’s ok. We can find a way to—”

“What are we going to do? I thought today would be the day. But it's further away than it's ever been and— And your  _ face  _ when you thought that I would go back to my father just like that and  _ abandon _ you after he tried to kill you. After he killed Godfrey. Oh, and the Minister too of course. To substitute her with one of those… those... And who else is he going to murder?

“I thought it would all be over today. And now it seems we are back to square one and every day he is out there and we are a step further from him and I fear my resolve will grow weak. I was so blind for so long and what if I fall back into one of his traps? My whole life he has had control over me and all he had to use was a stern tone of voice to make me bend my will to his and what if the moment I see him it happens again?" He pressed a hand to his forehead, his grip taut as if to stop his head from unraveling. "I have been so weak, for so long...”

The scales would have tipped over one way or the other, in the process dislodging all the pieces Claude thought he had control over. He’d endeavor to keep, for some time, a tight lid over any actions not born of rational thoughts, over any actions whose consequences he could not predict. But right now it was all failing him. Here was danger, here the traitor they hadn’t apprehended yet who wanted Claude's head. And here was Claude not considering where he put his hand. 

But the choice was to see Lorenz in pain and do nothing, which wasn't much of a choice at all. Whatever else they were denying to themselves, nothing would stop him from offering what he could when Lorenz’s voice trembled so.

The palm of his hand seamlessly fit over Lorenz's shoulder, thumb pressed to the line of his collarbone, sharp even through layers. He did not think it possible for the tension in the muscles there to tighten further, yet it did. Lorenz had kept quiet for so long, now all his anxieties and fears were leaving him in frantic breaths. Claude knew what it was to keep something to yourself until you felt fit to burst with it. 

"You're not weak," he said to Lorenz. “The man who married a complete stranger to avoid the war his father would have wrought was not weak. The man who helped me when I didn’t know how to ask for help, despite all of our disagreements, was not weak.” Stopping would have been easier, perhaps.

He wondered what it meant that he continued. “You didn’t know who I was, you couldn’t possibly trust me, and still you didn’t hesitate to help me, and listen to me, even knowing the truth about your father would hurt you.”

Once words ran out came the time for withdrawal. To offer more would not be welcomed. Before he could draw back Lorenz's head was bending down. In instinctive recognition Claude's hand slid with the movement to gather him close, the spread of his fingers now on the bare back of his neck; a weight to press Lorenz's head to his shoulder. 

It was not the kind of embrace that would have chased thoughts away and imposed serenity. A hand on the arch of Lorenz's neck was as far as he dared go with Lorenz's arm between their bodies, his hand creasing Claude's jacket over his heart. It was Lorenz finding a moment's respite in the hollow of his neck and drawing strength from it, all too aware that he would lift his head and nothing would have changed. Claude hadn't felt this useless in a long time, but was gladder than he'd even been for this position he found himself in, that, untenable as it was, allowed him to offer this, at least, with all its tentative shortcomings. 

He did not put his arms around Lorenz as he wished to; neither did he hold him close to him until, as the distance between them, his worries were smothered away as well. They barely knew where they stood with things as they were. If what Lorenz needed from him was this—the temporary respite of solace, but with the clear path back towards the storm too, so they would not lose their way—he would give it more than willingly. 

“Right now, you thought that I had turned my back on you,” Lorenz said, muffled. 

Claude pressed his eyes closed. He tilted his head until his nose was buried in Lorenz’s hair. To find the words, he took a deep breath. “That wasn’t because I think you’re fickle,” he sighed. “That was just me, thinking what we have is too good to be true and not believing I can be this lucky.” 

The hand clutching his jacket tightened. 

“Hey, if push comes to shove, we will go to the newspaper guild and give them all we have on your father. See what they do with Acheron’s letters. I hear they’re merciless when it comes to destroying reputations. ‘For the knowledge of all’, is it?”

Lorenz’s breath left him in a halfhearted snort that turned into a sob halfway. The hand Claude had vowed to keep still rose to press between Lorenz’s shoulder blades. But it wasn’t the unmooring he’d thought. His next words were shaky, but he had full command of his voice. "I know it is foolish. But can you...tell me about that green valley you spoke of?" Lorenz said, quiet. "For a bit? If you are not averse..." 

Claude did, not for one second confused about what Lorenz meant.

"How could I be averse?" he murmured. 

And to the tapestries hung on the walls and the sunken panels of the coffered ceiling he turned his eyes, and in them saw, and spoke of, the dance of the overgrown field rippling in the wind to mirror the race of the white clouds overhead; a close imitation too of the swell of the sea a few miles to the east. That was what the name of the valley meant, Green Sea, for not only in its waves of grass did it resemble the ocean, but in the whispers the gusts of air wrought from the depth of the flat earth cupped between mountains an echo of the constant tide and cresting waves could be heard. The untamed horses there as curious as dolphins toward a people that had allowed them to exist without knowing the dangers of men. Up over the mountains, the breathtaking sight of unfolded wings spoke of a freedom to roam that the sails of a ship could never replicate to perfection. 

In starting, he lost the way towards stopping. Claude talked for a long time, without thought to shield much or the wish to do so anymore, until under his hands the unendurable tension returned to manageable levels and Lorenz's breathing eased into an echo of the steady cadences of Claude's voice.

Lorenz unbowed his head like a weathered tree pushing past snow. One stray tear clung to his jaw before he wiped it away with the back of his hand. But other than it, and the hint of red to his eyes, he had gathered himself. Claude let his hands fall away from him and return to his sides, where they must stay. 

"Thank you," said Lorenz, softly. He talked past the shade of awkwardness of a man not used to asking for tales of foreign valleys, "I wish you could show me, sometime. That we had time for something that was not treachery." Despite the truth in his words, he exhaled an amused breath, knowing how remote the chance his wish would ever come to pass, and accepting it as another impossibility.

In a world of injustices he was more than familiar with, this one gripped his heart as no others had. 

That even this had to be denied—

Claude didn’t hear the rest, if there was a rest; suddenly he the one undone. The image possessed him so completely, a painting in his mind. Taking Lorenz to Almyra to show him not only the valleys he spoke of but the high white cliffs of the capital, where he had grown up. He could almost taste the salt in the air rising from the sea to the balcony his old room had opened to, and see the way the wild wind up there would tease eager fingers into Lorenz's long hair when he stepped out to watch the sun set. Almost smell the jasmines and hyacinths in the gardens his mother had designed for the Summer Palace, where Lorenz could plant the roses he loved so much with the caution to keep to the shade lest he burn up under the strong sun like Tiana still did, no matter the years her skin peeling and freckling. And when he thought of those mountains to the West and a wyvern’s ride, he realized this felt like falling, too. Flying, falling; he couldn’t tell anymore. He’d thought he could pretend, in this, as in everything. How wrong he'd been. And how treacherous his mind, to show him the endless possibilities now, when Lorenz was not himself, vulnerable, afraid and not in a position to deal with whatever Claude was letting him see that turned him pale. He stepped away from Lorenz like a man seared by a flame; already it was too late. 

Lorenz stopped him with a grasp around his forearm. “Don’t.” Lorenz's voice wavered but didn’t break. He took one frantic intake of air. “It was unfair of me to ask. I don't know what came over me, but it will not happen again. We can go on as we were." He added, in a quivering breath, “Please, forgive me.”

He thought he'd been the one to overstep? Something light, shapeless, fluttered inside Claude. "Don't apologize." Then, with helpless honesty, "You can ask anything you want of me."

Lorenz looked like he had struck him. "I can't. We must go on as we were."

After the morning with the horses and the flower that was a weed and the way he'd averted his eyes from Claude, he would have taken it as a rejection. But not now, not with Lorenz curling his fingers around the flesh of his arm like letting him go was beyond him. It wasn't the time for this conversation, he wasn't seeking for acceptance or a clearly-enunciated rejection, but he could not let Lorenz go on thinking he must hide his feelings for Claude's sake. 

"Why?" 

"Why?" Lorenz echoed, grasping for sense. "We are not—"

“Married?” 

“Don’t. Don’t say it like we did anything in the right order. It is not real.” 

“It feels real.” 

Lorenz blinked. As if amidst the dark, in reaching forward to find his path he had stumbled over something unexpected. His eyes widened with an attempt at wonder, before he realized it was happening and startled back. He didn't step away, but very carefully let go of his grip around Claude's arm.

“It will pass," Lorenz said slowly. "It will turn into a prison." Uncertainly. "You will realize you are tied to someone you never chose." As if he was trying to convince not only Claude. "That what should have been yours to give was taken instead. We will resent each other, and blame each other. You have no idea—”

"Is that how you feel? Or are you trying to convince me it is how I will feel?"

The question caught him unawares. He never answered it. Lorenz said, in a measured tone that belied the rise and fall of his chest, "Do not tell me you ever wanted a political marriage, or knew what you were getting into. Do not tell me you know how it will turn out, because you cannot."

"You're right, I can't. But neither can you. And I want to figure it out." He took one step forward. "Don't you? Every time I see you, talk to you, I want to figure it out."

The words seemed to unbalance Lorenz. He braced one hand on Claude's chest, but moved no closer nor pushed him away. "What we have now is..." he faltered; searched for words. Then, "I’d rather have your friendship, and never know anything else, than your disdain because despite how much you try, I am not the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with, and you are tied to me against your will.” 

“Is that it? Disdain?" Claude breathed out a laugh, half astonished, half relieved. It seemed so easy, now. In fact, the easiest thing he'd ever spoken was, "How could I ever hate you?” His hands found Lorenz's elbows. Then, the upwards slide to his shoulders, as he said, “My friendship is yours already, for as long as you want it. My disdain you could never have.” Claude stepped closer. “And the one you don’t mention I don’t know how to give you, without your asking. What if it’s you that hates me?” 

Before Lorenz’s voice there was the impossible yielding as the rigid shoulders tipped into Claude’s touch. After an unbearably long pause, “I once thought I hated you so much it would suffocate me," Lorenz said, wondering at it. "But I cannot anymore. You changed it." So close were they, Lorenz tilted his head forward and Claude recognized the softer scent of roses of his perfume. "You changed everything." The light of the lit candles made of his eyes a molten pool that darkened before disappearing as Lorenz closed his eyes to Claude brushing his jaw with his fingertips. 

It only took one more inch and Claude eased him near and was, at last, kissing him. 

Past the need for thought as soon as their lips touched. Lorenz's soft lips and the warmth of the breath around which they parted in offering and taking both overwhelmed anything else in a dizzying vortex of recognition that blasted through any qualms he may have had. Something that felt so right could not be wrong. 

It was short—enough to realize and marvel at the sweet taste of Lorenz's lips—followed by a separation that merged their disbelieving breaths and let Claude witness the hazy lift of Lorenz's lashes and the wash of pupil eating up the color of his eyes; next, a longer, deeper one, with Lorenz's mouth chasing him and his slender fingers buried in his hair. He didn't know for how long, exactly, he'd wanted this, but now he had it he realized he had been starving for what must have been years. Everything he'd ever done had taken him here, had been for this moment. 

Every unchecked sound that escaped Lorenz's throat, every rasping intake of breath, carved a new meaning of craving in Claude's skin, stoked an insatiable want of Lorenz and his sounds and the shape and tremors of a body ridding itself of the restraints of denial. There would be time to learn what it was that then made Lorenz tip forward, closer into his arms, stripped of hesitation, whether it was the slow but sure slide of Claude's tongue in his mouth or the thumb brushing in half circles the hummingbird pulse in his neck, or the impression of teeth in the quicksilver grin he could not contain; maybe it was the simple search of Claude's own reactions and his inevitable shudder when Lorenz's lean body pressed to his. Later, there would be time—for now, Claude just did, and felt. 

Later. 

The disturbance of a weathered dam bursting after a downpour fed the rushing river must have wreaked havoc such as this. Implacable thought returned, in a daze of splinters and coldness. 

Puzzlingly, Claude noticed the halt in Lorenz, first, which had been only a reaction to his own stuttering. 

Lorenz leaned back to look at him. "Claude?" As well as in the places Claude had touched, like his hair now not flawlessly sleek, and his collar now slanted, most of all his wet lips, the kiss was evident in his voice. Claude was not ready for any of it. Not for the incongruence of foreboding intruding in a moment he wanted separate from the unfeeling push of the outside world, and not for the crease of doubt returning to Lorenz's brow. "What's wrong?"

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” Lorenz was pulling away. "It’s not whatever you're thinking. Gods, it’s not that. But I need to tell you something." He held Loren's face between his hands. "I need to tell you now. I don’t know when the right moment was because I never planned for this. But it’s past time now. I thought it wiser to wait, but if we can talk, if you let me explain, then, it will work out.” He heard how frantic he sounded and how clumsily he was tripping over his words, but control of himself was returning at a far slower pace than thought had. 

“What…”

“The truth, Lorenz. The truth is, I am—”

The door burst open. Two guards held an exhausted hatted messenger between them, supporting him to his feet. He bore Goneril’s colors and looked pale with fatigue. 

With the sound of the door, they had leaned away from one another, and now were turned towards the gasping messenger, but Claude still held Lorenz’s wrist; almost an afterthought. There Claude felt the spike in the pulse he should have felt within himself, too, and couldn’t, when the messenger spoke and, with one sentence knocked everything into disarray. 

The messenger announced, "Almyra has attacked the border. Duke Goneril was injured in battle and asks for reinforcements." He had to take another breath to add, to the two motionless men opposite him, "My Lords." 

And there wasn't even any time to notice the lack of warmth, the air substituting with ungentle alacrity all the places Lorenz had touched, before coldness enfolded him whole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes two chapters at once because the slowburn was killing me so THERE THEY KISSED!!! AT LAST!! I've been waiting to write it for SO LONG


	12. XII

Claude watched it all happen like it was a play on stage. An expensive one, for all the sense it lacked. With an extensive wardrobe department that had achieved, in the riding leathers of the messenger, the discomfiture of long hours and a harried pace on a horse. The makeup expensive and expertly applied: white powders on Lorenz’s face when the color drained from his face so that the lips, tender after the kiss, stood out red. It didn’t really sink in, what all this meant. Not while Lorenz slipped from his grasp and moved into action, offering a chair to the exhausted man and ordering food brought as he began assaulting him with questions. Yes, there was a short message, the envoy said. 

He began searching for it in his pockets as he spoke. “...injured as he was and forsaken from battle, my lord left his uncle in charge to come himself to report and petition for aid. I was sent ahead a few miles south, when his injuries forced him to slow down. Here," he handed Lorenz a wrinkled square of paper. "He told me to assure my lords that he guarantees he will not be kept from court for long, he rode just behind me and I am confident he will arrive shortly…”

And Claude turned his eyes to Holst’s scrawl when Lorenz tilted the paper for him to read. Lorenz finished it before he did and went back to query the messenger for all that the hurried message had omitted. Was Holst alright? How grievous his wounds? How many casualties had there been? There was too much unknown. What kind of attack had it been? Border disputes were as common as weeds. One village hunted where they shouldn’t, then someone took some goats that did not belong to them and farmers were taking up rusted arms and Nader had to leave the palace to place order before it got out of hand. But for Holst to have been injured… 

“It was Nader the Undefeated the one who led the attack, Your Grace. They barreled through our defenses at the Locket.” 

“What.” 

The Goneril man jumped like he’d forgotten Claude was there. Admittedly, it was the first time Claude spoke. The messenger repeated what he’d said, now looking at him instead of Lorenz, and still it made no sense. Nader only led attacks sanctioned by the King. It had been years since Holst and Nader’s games of cat and mouse across the border had ceased, after the last negotiations. Now it could be taken as a declaration of war if talks did not proceed in an orderly manner. His father had no reason to order an attack, waste lives, start a battle that could bring a war… He needed to know who else had fought with Nader. What banners, and how many. Had the Immortal Corps been there? But he could not ask any of it, or expect the messenger to have noticed. For too long, a stretch of land had signified foreignness and ensconced ignorance. He could not ask of this man an understanding of what the Almyran soldiers had said, if the words shouted across the battlefield, from wyvern to wyvern, had been of conquest or revenge. If their formation had taken the shape of an arrow pointed to pierce through the Locket’s keep or if it had been a wave meant to raze everything to the ground. All the people of Goneril would have seen was what they were too content to call the legendary Almyran thirst of violence, which only meant they would never try to discern their reasons—fear, grief, anger? But there was something, as of yet, universal, recognizable no matter where you stood. 

“Did they wear something in common? Armbands? A sash? A tassel hanging from their weapons? What colour was it?” 

The messenger had gulped the food Lorenz had ordered brought, and now swallowed it all down with the last mouthful of wine. He looked from Claude to Lorenz, and back. “I don’t… Your Grace, I’m sorry, I wasn’t in the battle, Duke Goneril did not say—” 

“They did. It was white.” 

“Holst!” Lorenz gasped. 

He looked worse than the messenger had before replenishing his strength with bread rolls and wine but, unlike him, he was not letting anybody support him. Behind him, a tight-lipped healer robed in white glowered, looking done with headstrong soldiers who rode miles to catch up with their envoys. 

“Your messenger informed us the severity of your injuries had delayed you,” Lorenz was saying, an edge of relief to his voice at finding it had not been so after all. “We thought you terribly wounded, what has happened?” And before Holst could answer, asked him to sit and again ordered food brought. 

The messenger left to offer his place to his Lord, unable to hide his admiration. How fast had Holst decided to ride that he had almost overrun the messenger despite his wounds? He dropped all the weight of his broad and muscled frame in the vacant chair with a faint grimace of pain and an air of finality that Claude thought for a worrying moment would bring the chair down in a shower of mahogany splinters. It held, on creaking legs. 

“Are you all right?” Lorenz asked. 

“Just the arm.” Holst scoffed. “Had to be the arm. I could have tied myself to a horse if it had been the leg. It’ll keep me out of battle for a week at least, but Jerold here says it’s fixable.” 

The healer standing stiffly behind him set his jaw, his nostrils flared. He said, “Not if you do not exercise restraint—”

The new incoming of bread rolls interrupted him. Holst reached for them with his left hand, and Claude followed the movement to the motionless arm and the rigid set of bandages that covered his right shoulder beneath the jacket. 

“So,” Holst muttered through the first mouthful, “a white armband. What does it mean and how did you know to ask about it?” 

On Claude’s face, Lorenz’s stare seemed hot as a branding iron. 

“Not a fan of the minstrel’s epics?” Claude asked. “Just wanted to know if their tales about border battles are true. They sing of a sea of Almyran warriors with armbands of crimson to signify their unquenching thirst of blood; and them all, and all their red cloth, stopped by our stalwart defender and his axe.”

Holst frowned. “I don’t remember that one.” 

“Mm? Maybe I’m thinking of something else?” He waved his hand in the air as if to grasp a straying thought. “Fódlan has shed so much blood, after all. The Battle of the Eagle and Lion, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Lorenz said, testily. “But if we may get back on track. Holst, I cannot believe this unprecedented attack came out of nowhere. There must have been signs, something. Your message was scarcely detailed.” 

“I…” It was hard to tell, because, wounded and weakened as he was, his captivation with the food brought was only half pretending, but his eyes darted away from Lorenz’s face far too quickly. Holst said, “Just a week ago, I received a report that spoke of infighting among the Almyrans. Two Almyran villages were destroyed, in the span of one night.”

“Infighting.” The word carried the unwilling coldness that had seeped into Claude's bones.

Holst went on, hoarse. “These were small, sheltered villages, the two closest to the border. Powerless except for the hunters who bring in the food and… My scouts reported no survivors, not even the elders or the children who could not have lifted a weapon.” He pushed the tray away from himself. “I left the state to keep a closer eye on the Locket myself, in case the culprits decided to flee over the border. But instead of the brigands I expected it was Nader the Undefeated and a fully armed battalion who came at us." 

“And the two destroyed villages?” Lorenz asked. “Do you know anything else?”

“It was savage. The work of soulless men. Even miles away you could see the fire burn for hours; the air the next day carried ashes. And just to massacre tiny villages. Not even when we had constant raids, before the last treaty was signed, did they employ such… I don’t think that I can call them tactics. Destruction for the sake of it. I don’t know what I would have done if something like that had happened to one of our villages.” 

“I think I do,” Claude told him.

“Well, I suppose...”

His recollection may have turned his stomach, but without any obstacles to his open and honest face, there was something clearly tightening his jaw. Something other than the pain in his arm. “And you’re certain it was infighting.”

“What?”

“No bold statements in the dining hall that could lead a new troop of greenhorns to make assumptions about what their lord would reward?”

“Claude—” Lorenz warned, reaching for him, but Claude was already moving forward—he let his hand trail over the polished wood of the table and picked up a clean glass from the tray. 

He said, nonchalant as he inspected it: “No mercenaries in Goneril territory that’d expect a hearty meal in the Duke’s kitchens after doing some dirty work?” 

Unceremoniously, Claude sat on the edge of the table, by Holst’s elbow, and reached to pour himself wine from the pitcher. “Maybe those villagers stepped over some invisible line and your diligent scouts readily reported?” The mulled, spiced wine was still warm. And Holst slow to react, but... “No?” He leaned back, balancing the glass in a loose grasp. There. The spark of anger caught in the black of his eyes, the lines on his face emptying of confused exhaustion and welcoming the mind-clearing induration of outrage. Almost there. “Maybe a minor lord took to you his complaints of a daughter who had run away to the wrong side of the border and well, you’re loyal to your ruler and cannot abide any unlawful skirmishes, but if this minor lord had the funds, the soldiers, to go and rightfully get his grown woman of a daughter back against her will and in the process raze some savages to the ground… Maybe you would look the other way?” He tipped his glass forward, as if to toast Holst’s left hand, clenched into a fist on the arm of the chair. 

It did not remain there for long. 

Even left-handed, Holst had plenty of strength to lift him off the table and drag him forward by the grip in his collar. The glass shattered on the floor and spilled wine over the expensive carpet and the disordered papers there. 

"You're hiding something," Claude said while the healer gasped in the background. Holst’s nostrils flared. "Who are you covering for?" Anger had erased any other intention from his features, any chance Holst may have had at hiding the truth. 

“I have been nothing but loyal to my lords,” he seethed.

“Are you sure?” Claude pressed. 

Holst had only grabbed his clothes, but the grasp around the front of his jacket pinched his throat in an unpleasant manner. He would have to stop ignoring it if he did not wish to start choking promptly. But by that time Lorenz was pushing between them, silent in his anger. 

“That’s enough,” he said, iron grip around Holst’s wrist until he wrenched his fist back from Claude’s collar. 

“No soldier of mine would ever do something like this," Holst rasped. "Not my people.” He staggered, suddenly pale, but he refused to sit when the healer prompted him. 

“Not your people, but someone did,” Claude shot back. “And you know who.” 

There it was again, that sudden jerk of his eyes, now towards Lorenz. But Lorenz didn’t notice, he was drilling Claude with his eyes. 

“That’s enough,” Lorenz said again, but now it was to him. “Holst is injured.” He lowered his voice so that, with his back to Holst and to the fussing healer, only Claude heard, “We will not interrogate him like a common criminal. What are you thinking?” 

Claude did not keep his voice down. “I’m thinking he is plainly hiding something from us.” 

“My lords, Duke Holst seems to have worsened his injury.” The healer. “If I could interrupt to—”

Lorenz swung around. “Yes, of course.” He stepped towards Holst to offer his help. His hand on Holst’s healthy shoulder to steady him. Claude watched Lorenz walk him to the door, where the soldiers there would make sure of his safe arrival to the rooms he usually took in the palace. He watched, unhearing, as Holst turned to Lorenz one last time and said something quiet to him. He watched the place on his back where Lorenz’s hand remained to offer support. That same hand gripped the doorknob to close the door, knuckles white when he clutched it for a moment longer than necessary. 

Some minutes before, that hand had been pressed to Claude’s chest, or tentatively reaching to touch his neck. Back then, he would have thought of nothing worse than an interruption that would take Lorenz’s kiss from him. Now innocent lives had been lost. Not only soldiers. Two whole villages and their people were gone. Almyran people. The words he hadn’t said to Lorenz tainted his mouth, a sharp, bitter taste to the back of his throat. 

Only as the room emptied and his awareness returned its unforgiving focus to his own person, did he realize how tight he’d let his nerves be strung. How the air stirred in his lungs and he had had to, for a while now, pay conscious attention to his breathing. Claude straightened his jacket. 

“He  _ does  _ have something to say.” Lorenz at last turned; displeasure coiled around his words as he added, “But you needn’t have taunted him like that.” But Lorenz rose a hand when Claude made to speak. “He wants to talk to me, later. I would reassure you that he would not object to your presence, but not after what happened.” 

“His report should come to the both of us,” Claude pointed out, quietly because inside him all was loud and demanding and Lorenz should not be the one to bear the brunt of whatever it was he was feeling. 

Lorenz’s answer came in the same tone. “Yes, I will try." A long exhalation through his nose, as his lips pursed. "But he asked as my friend, for a private audience. He is injured, he has lost a lot of people; watched them die fighting by his side and your doubts in him shocked him.” His eyes slid away to, for a long minute, roam over the stained carpet forever soaking up the colour of the wine. “Shocked  _ me.  _ Do you truly not trust him?" 

Claude looked away. Lorenz asked about trust like it was something one gave at will instead of something others wrested away. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last. The words fell far off the mark, but he didn’t know, either, how to return to the moment where he could—he would—have told Lorenz anything. It had seemed, then, as easy as breathing out air; as unstoppable as that arrow that soars the sky and sinks where it was meant to. 

But there always comes a point bowstrings irreparably stretch and aim is knocked out of alignment. 

“But, of course,” Lorenz resumed again, slowly, “Goneril soldiers were not the only ones who were lost." 

The spilled wine had stained his jacket as well. He realised because it overwhelmed his senses with the stinging smell of liquor, almost as if he'd drunk it instead. Lorenz’s careful words as he came closer had the same effect. Claude said, “What?”

After a long pause, “The Almyran villages.”

The things they weren’t saying to each other caught the motes of dust stirring in the candlelight between them. Apprehension gripped him by the throat as he watched Lorenz fill his lungs with a question. Was he going to rip the truth from Claude’s lips and bare everything to the unforgiving scrutiny of exposure, now? Or would he ask Claude to dig deeper and sink further and keep pretending? Either would have taken all the strength he had left. Ever since the door had closed behind Holst and the healer his tense muscles had slackened and allowed exhaustion to fill them. And he would need everything he had for the night that would follow. 

Claude wouldn’t have thought it possible, but somehow Lorenz asked nothing that Claude had feared. “What does a white armband signify?” 

White. 

It was the colour of a wyvern that nobody thought would reach adulthood. Tiana's dress the day Judith's letter about Godfrey arrived. The lilies at his grandmother's funeral, and his father's sash for the length of a year. 

The answer took shape in his mouth, in the spaces between his teeth; he tasted its implications upon his tongue. When he spoke it was not a conscious effort, but a release. He opened his lips and the word was, almost soundlessly, set free: “Mourning.” 

With a slow nod, Lorenz accepted that knowledge. Claude could imagine the storage space growing fuller, where he put it. It wasn’t enough. Not yet. He had to...

The palm of Lorenz’s hand was warm, pressed to his face. “Are you all right?” 

But how could he tell him now he was the son of the man who had ordered Leicester attacked? It could cost them everything. It could cost Lorenz a future safe from his father's misdeeds. Word of the Almyran attack would soon spread and they'd need to face demands and fears, anger and unpredictability. They needed to be in the best shape they could, and as much as he wanted to he could not predict Lorenz’s reaction—he would not compromise Lorenz for surcease of his own uncertainties. 

He took Lorenz’s hand from his face. To soothe the gesture, and because he didn’t know when he’d be able to do so again, he brushed a kiss to his palm. “I should talk to Cyril, before word spreads.” 

When Claude let him go, Lorenz’s hand closed, as if to keep the touch of Claude’s lips locked in the cage of his palm. “I will go assure Hilda has been notified her brother is here, and safe,” Lorenz said. Claude had to watch him straighten in preparation to step into the role he was to fill and accept what his position would require of him. In doing so, he put away anything that remained of what been allowed between them in private. 

What had, almost miraculously it still seemed to Claude, happened between them. Lorenz had kissed him back. 

A lonely box was buried among his clothes inside his dresser. He knew he would take it out before the day was over. 

—

That night was a long one. Of it, Claude would remember: Cyril’s anger and confusion, a mirror to his; the vitriol around every corner where nobles talked in groups of threes and fours against Almyra; the charged current through it all that went deeper: fear of a war for too long delayed—Claude had hoped it would never come to pass. Most of all, he would remember every minute he did not speak to Lorenz. A mistake, if there ever was one. But back then it was unthinkable, to add another debacle to the already overbrimming glass about to tip over. His grandfather’s inopportune arrival, not one hour after Holst and the news from the border. The emergency Roundtable meeting that lasted hours. The letters redacted there and never sent. The somber draft of a call to arms he and Lorenz somehow, Claude not fully conscious of what he was saying, kept the council members from finishing. Cyril was fervently poring over maps he'd taken from the library in search of the quickest route eastwards that whatever emissaries they sent could take. 

He had five minutes to go to open his wardrobe and rummage through a drawer. He almost forgot to change out of his stained jacket. 

Then, Lorenz sent for him. A servant was ushering him inside Holst’s empty rooms. Through the open balcony doors, a soft breeze swirled inside, carrying the murmur of voices in private conversation. 

Lorenz had told him he’d try to get Holst to talk to him as well, and he had. Claude stopped, before announcing himself, to let go of all the restless energy of a frantic night without any sleep and abundant coffee. What Holst revealed had the power to change everything. He could fix a misunderstanding between nations. He could not create peace from thin air. Because he took that minute to stand in a place where his goals had not been dismembered quite yet, he saw the men in the balcony before they saw him. 

They stood with their backs to Claude, side by side. Holst had one hand between Lorenz’s shoulder blades. A friendly pat on the back that may have lingered. A comforting touch in this chaotic time. 

As uncomplicated as that. 

He wondered how it would be, to touch Lorenz without holding anything back. 

There was no stopping what that thought proceeded to set in motion in his mind. 

For Holst may have been a blind fool, but Claude had witnessed Lorenz’s severe frown lift away the day of their wedding the moment Holst had approached their seats and blundered through a few well-wishing hearty sentences. He’d watched, from the front row, Lorenz’s obvious admiration toward Holst the day of the tournament. He’d wondered if Lorenz would ever act on it or content himself with his friendship, and would have considered offering some help, if he’d thought Lorenz would allow him to survive such a bold assumption. Who knew, if Claude hadn’t gotten in the way, where Holst’s hand would be now? Or if Lorenz would be leaning into him? 

Something twisted painfully inside his chest. 

What did Holst Goneril have to hide? Lorenz could find honesty in his lips, not half-rushed confessions; blunt frankness in his hands, not an uncertain touch that fled from him. 

Then, Holst turned his head. His wound may have bothered him. A muscle cramped. He may have looked Lorenz's way to say something, or to better hear him if he spoke. It may have been a thousand things and the part of him that clung to rationality knew none of those were what he imagined, that slid a cold caress down his spine. But amidst his muddled thoughts, it looked too close to what his mind had been tormenting him with; if Lorenz tilted his face up now and welcomed Holst’s lips to his, without anything else between them but the discovery and the slow learning and everything that had halted for Claude hours ago and he didn’t know how to return to. What if Holst looked at Lorenz and saw everything Claude saw?

And at the same time, how could he not? 

Resolutely, Claude took one step into the balcony, loosening up his locked shoulders, his hands that had clenched into fists.

And: Lorenz, turning, approaching him. Claude almost forgot why his chest hurt. “Claude.” For one worrying second, there was no telling what they'd been talking about. What had Holst said, that in Lorenz’s face no trace of the levelheaded determination he had used to keep the councilmen's wrath at bay could be found? “There never was any infighting.” He hissed, “It was my father.” 

His crossed arms and the tight line of his mouth a testament to his anger, Lorenz let Holst explain it. How a week before the destruction of the Almyran villages a contingency of Gloucester troops had arrived, with a letter signed by Lorenz recommending them to replenish the Locket’s defenses. How they had kept a wide distance from any of the troops already there, cold and aloof. How they had disappeared right after the attack on the villages without any explanation. 

“I never thought to doubt the letter,” Holst finished. “I do not bring it with me, but it was Lorenz’s seal, his signature. And when I suspected them of treachery it was too late. I could not find them.” 

Claude nodded. He spoke before Lorenz had to deny ever sending any letters. He didn’t need to. “The Count must have hoped to shift Leicester closer to the brink of chaos."

“We cannot handle war and his schemes at the same time,” Lorenz surmised. 

“I think…” Claude licked his lips. “I think this could work our way. Almyra will want retribution, yes. But the acts of one man, a man who we’re going to bring to justice, are not the acts of a nation. They will want assurances that Count Gloucester will pay for the blood he spilled and we may have to concede some land, and long talks will follow but…” 

“One of you,” Holst said, “must come with me, then. A letter will not appease a bereaved people. Not like the presence of the Alliance’s leaders will. One of them, in the least.” 

There’s nothing to do, once a landslide has been set in motion. Claude saw everything unfold in a way that was unstoppable, Lorenz’s widened eyes locked to his as the first ounce of certainty, since the messenger had told them the news, flared inside him. 

Lorenz did not make Claude ask. “It would be thoughtless, nay, insulting, to impose upon them the presence of the son of the man responsible.” They were gazing at one another. Lorenz’s eyes held in them, also, the inked sky above them, the stars spilled across it, the pearly sheen of the fingernail moon. All of it seemed small. “It should be you,” Lorenz breathed. 

“With your leave,” Holst broke in, and Claude reluctantly turned to him, “I shall have the troops ready to depart by noon. We can’t delay.”

“We should talk about this, first.” _ In private,  _ Claude begged to Lorenz in silence. 

It seemed it was loud enough for even Holst to notice. He slapped Claude’s back, a gesture that told Claude their previous disagreement had been forgotten, even if the force behind it seemed fit to dislocate his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then! I’ll begin sending the orders to gather the troops for the journey.”

“Yes, we leave that to you, then.” Claude patted his healthy arm. “Send for my man Cyril. We’ve been going over the maps, and he knows the area. He will come too. With either Lorenz or myself.” And added, knowing it futile, “Try to catch what little rest you may.” 

Holst barked a laugh. 

“We will get back to you with our decision,” Lorenz told him. 

Side by side, they left the room and walked down the hallway. Nobody seemed to have slept a wink. Or planned to. It would be dawn in a couple of hours, and doors were opening and closing, on both sides of the corridor, in arrivals and departures. Those who had not worked had gossiped. 

“You said we needed to speak. Are you not in agreement with what I said? I assumed you would prefer to be the one to settle the conflict with Almyra. And you spent part of the night perusing maps with Cyril. You know what route to the Locket will be the fastest and safest for our troops.” 

The box in his pocket was a weight that duplicated with every step. 

“I’m in agreement.” He would not have imagined his homecoming to be quite like this, amidst an armed conflict and lost lives, his people grieving and their prince on the other side. Nader was not going to welcome treating with him from opposite sides as if he hadn’t been the one to teach him how to throw an axe. But if someone could convince Almyra to listen, to disregard years of hatred and hundreds of lost lives to a thin stretch of land, and trust that this time had been different, the actions of a traitor instead of the will of a country, he could. Lorenz’s blood would blind all to his diplomacy. “I can convince them and stop this before it goes any further. I can. But before we decide anything you need to know something. I know it’s been a long night and you haven’t slept, but can we talk, in private?” 

“Very well.” Lorenz nodded. The hesitation before Lorenz spoke did not include any overly caution or worry, the line in his brow as shallow and fleeting as the circumstances allowed. Claude tried not to read too much into it. That Lorenz knew where he came from—because he must, because he had touched his face and offered understanding of something Claude did not even understand himself—did not mean he knew who his father was. Who Claude would be, one day.

They had yet to even reach the stairs toward their quarters. Never had the palace corridors felt this long. 

Lorenz's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "In truth,” he hesitated, “I cannot claim to be content to stay. Do not think I am backtracking. Or that I will, after our conversation, my mind is quite set on this. But I had to say it: It would be preferable if we could both go. I dislike splitting our strengths when Leicester is so threatened, in more than one front, and you  _ are  _ walking into a battleground, and however things go, risking your life, to fix something my father did, alas…” He laughed, bitter. “Without the Minister keeping an eye on him for however long, who knows what will happen now. I already sent the knights after him, but it is too early to have word. So," he sighed, "one of us needs to stay and deal with whatever he does next." 

Claude bumped his shoulder to Lorenz’s upper arm and caught his gaze. “Are you sure?” he queried. “We never did get to go on a honeymoon.” 

Lorenz's lips twitched, as the shell of propriety they had both wrapped around themselves for one very long night was allowed a crack. Lorenz did not immediately seal it back, as he may once have done. Instead, his next breath was lighter, their arms brushing. 

“A warzone,” Lorenz said, arching an eyebrow, “how romantic.”

He managed to pluck a quiet laugh from Claude's chest. “Fussy,” he teased. 

Lorenz did a bad job of pretending offense, and trailed off the instant that, because they had started climbing the stairs and nobody would see, Claude reached to take his hand. 

For all that Lorenz had returned his kiss with obvious experience, to this he offered no such self-confidence, suddenly losing the thread of what he’d been saying. The light was not so poor as to not show the blush across his cheeks, which erased the pallor of sleeplessness. 

As a prince, his chances to acquaint himself with this sort of easiness had been limited; he’d have thought the son of a Count’s less so. But then again, Claude had learned to sneak outside the oppressive palace at a young age, wandering the streets of the capital during festivals and busy hours as one teenager more—unrecognized and thus unthreatened—fearing nothing worse than Nader’s halfhearted rebukes. He couldn’t see Lorenz sneaking out a window for a secret tryst in town; or if he ever had, not for the kind that allowed to walk hand in hand with not a burden or worry as to who would recognize the heir of the distinguished House Gloucester, and what they would say; and when, not if, the gossip would reach his father. 

If there had been no secrets between them, he would have pulled Lorenz to a stop, let his fingers trace the soft skin of his hand, and upwards, and discover the thin-skinned curve of his wrist. And more. 

There would be no caring for how long they stopped there between floors, or what tapestry of those covering the walls was left askew— He let that line of thought go no further. 

And was glad of it, not one second later, as they emerged to the landing and an overzealous servant almost ran them down. He let go of Lorenz. 

“My Lords,” he slightly bowed his head, “please forgive me my carelessness.” Claude forgave him his carelessness, but not what he knew would come out of his mouth, once he saw whose livery he wore. He turned to Claude, “Duke Riegan requests your presence to his quarters, Your Grace.” He added, arch, as only one who has served for too long the man in charge can, “As soon as it is convenient.” 

The proper thing would have been to go welcome his grandfather when he arrived. Of course, the threat of war excused him. He had hoped he would be too tired after the journey to request much of anything from him until he had talked to Lorenz. It was not yet dawn, what was he doing awake, for Gods’ sake. "Yes, please tell him I will go see him later." 

Claude had not truly believed it would be that easy. But one hopes. When he resumed walking with Lorenz, the servant fell into step behind them. Slowly, he turned around. "Yes?" 

"Duke Riegan requests your presence, Your Grace. He specified I was to lead you to his quarters." 

"I said—" He sighed. Rubbed tiredness from his eyes. 

Lorenz touched his shoulder. "We can talk after you answer the Duke's summons. I will await you in my rooms," in a sotto voice that sparked across Claude's weary muscles. In his sentence, there was no suggestion of future promises that justified the sudden burst of energy lightning-quick through his body, the dizzying brightening of the colours around them; Lorenz's touch perfunctory and brief. But words Lorenz had said plenty of times had a different meaning when he remembered the pliancy of his body as his mouth sought after Claude's, the spot on his neck Lorenz's fingers had brushed and made his. He thought he must be losing his mind until he noticed Lorenz's mouth. His lips were parted, his breath caught in the same moment Claude's thoughts were stuck in. 

"Yes." Claude heard the rasp in his voice. "I will. As soon as I'm done I will come." He made himself take one step back. Away from Lorenz and closer to the stiff servant. The things one did for duty. He whispered, over his shoulder as he turned, "If I'm not back in half an hour," the smile made it harder to keep his voice down, "please come save me?" 

Lorenz rose his eyes from his mouth, blinking. In the unforgiving light of the candles ensconced in the walls, the hours he'd been awake and stressed showed like bruises under his eyes. He was beautiful as he tried not to roll his eyes at Claude's plea, his lips twitching. 

“If I must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for reading!!! It took so long for that last update that I totally did not expect such a positive response, but it really warms my heart that you guys are still enjoying this ;.; Thank you so much <3 I hope you liked this one too ^^ It is a bit shorter than usual, but the ending hopefully is less...abrupt xD


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i wanted to say that there's angst in this chapter and it doesn't end on a happy note so i felt like i should warn you guys, in case you want to wait until the next update? tho i don't know if THAT ONE will end any better lol let's just say that we're entering the ROUGH PATCH (yes the assassination attempts from before weren't the rough patch....surprise?pleasedonthateme)  
> this story WILL have a happy ending, of that you can be sure!! (we're approaching the ending, though i don't have yet the definitive numbers of chapters)  
> i would say enjoy reading but i'm not sure if it fits after what i just said asdfghjkaha ANYWAY, PROCEED IF YOU'D LIKE TO (or if you gobble up angst like i do, ENJOY)

Claude had asked him, smirking with one side of his mouth, to rescue him from his grandfather’s room. Any other time, Lorenz would not have listened. But one of them—most likely Claude—was leaving for the border hours later. Lorenz had already made sure the horses were being readied and the supplies prepared for the battalion that would accompany him. They needed to settle on some last details about the route. And whatever it was that Claude had to tell him. If he thought about it too much, he would not be able to stop. The crowded space between them, brimming with secrets and lies and distrust, seemed to be vanishing. He did not dare imagine how it would be like, once all was gone.

Lorenz told himself it was this imperative, unavoidable task of settling on the route—they still needed to get back to Holst—that pushed him out of his quarters and towards Duke Riegan’s to see if Claude could get away. But with every footfall that put him closer to Claude, the clamoring inside him refused to settle down. All the tension of weeks, the denial, Claude had swept aside not with a careless hand but with words that had resonated deep inside Lorenz and rung truth. Though he would have been hard-pressed not to believe anything Claude told him if he followed it up with a soft press of those perfect lips. It had lasted enough to mend the tatters of what Lorenz’s refusal to admit his feelings had wrought. It has lasted too little. Lorenz’s heart beat faster every time he remembered the tentative brush of Claude’s calloused fingertips against his jaw. 

How light Claude had made him feel, when he’d reached for his hand without a doubt or an explanation. Could it be like this? 

But not with war and even more people dying if they didn't watch their step and controlled the situation at the border before it was too late. Claude's voice that night had gone nearly hoarse, selfsame to his own, speaking against the fully armed conflict some of the councilors had wanted as answer to Almyra. But together they could avoid any more bloodshed. Lorenz had faith in that. 

There was no servant to announce him when he arrived at the sitting room that preceded the Duke's bedchamber. Odd, any other time but not after such a hectic night. Maybe the Duke had wanted privacy. 

Lorenz was rethinking his approach when, from the door that had stuck ajar, came a loud exclamation. “I’m running out of time!” Duke Riegan burst out. “When I wrote to you it was in the hopes of seeing my son avenged, his murderer brought to justice.”

And Claude’s measured voice, in answer. “You will. There’s been a… setback. But it won’t be much longer.”

They were talking about his father, of course. It seemed to him unfair that Claude should receive the brunt of the reproach when both of them were at fault for not seeing how far Count Gloucester would go, how much blood he’d spill. Maybe that was why he stayed, teetering between leaving them and stepping inside to support Claude. 

But then: 

“How hard,” the Duke growled, “can it be to get into your own husband’s bed?”

Lorenz's ears pricked, the skin of his face stinging as if he'd been the one to receive the pressure of the demand, an exclamation expelled right into his face. But nothing had moved where he stood. Only, inside him, his heart.

The longest pause of his life followed. Was that it, then; the ice breaking under his feet? Water closing over him, as freezing as to render him wholly numb in a second. There was no pain, no lack of breath. Nothing but the smothering silence. And in it, the weak flame of trust, still alight with the memory of a kiss. 

If Lorenz thought he knew, in that second, coldness, Claude’s voice taught him the meaning of ice. “Excuse me?” 

“Why do you think you are married to him,” the Duke continued, “if not to use his influence over his father. There’s something he must have noticed.”

“I fear you’ve lost me,” Claude bit out. “And that you’ve been waiting for nothing.” Lorenz had never heard that deadened weight to his voice. “If I’d known this was what you intended I would never—” 

The Duke scoffed.  _ “You would never? _ Please. Don’t you have it in your blood?” His voice rose on the last word, a wheezing strain on his sick lungs. “Your father…” A coughing fit interrupted him. When it passed, “He had no trouble seducing my daughter away.” 

All that could be heard were the hissing breaths of the Duke. Claude never took that long to answer. Lorenz’s hand rose to press softly against the door, as if he could in any way approach him like this, touch his thoughts, discern the truth of his quiet. Lorenz held his breath, because it would come out as anger and contempt for the person who was supposed to have been on Claude's side all along--his only family here--and wasn't. 

“You overstep,” Claude remonstrated in a low tone. In any other man the anger would have been a roar. The flint against steel which was all Claude allowed to seep into his words was subtler, easier to miss. Not for Lorenz. “Your son’s murderer will face the consequences, but we’re done if all you have to do is insult my family and slander my husband.” 

“Done? Done! Think again, boy. I put you where you are—” There were the sounds of cutlery and plates, metal to ceramic without order; the tray fell with a crash to the floor, then the quieter struggle against pillows and heavy blankets as they were pushed away in an attempt to rise from the bed.

“You’re going to injure yourself.” Claude’s voice calm as a pond’s waters amidst the fits of his grandfather. 

Then, all the more venomous for the impotence he’d found in what had been once a young, healthy body: “I did not give Leicester to Almyra to get nothing in return.” The Duke’s weakness must have halted his attempt at rising, but the words were still crystal clear. Lorenz took a step back. They hadn’t yet spoken about it. Claude would not want him to listen to this—

“You didn’t,” Claude observed evenly, “give Leicester to Almyra.”

“Hah! Do you think I do not imagine what your plans are? Do you think the Alliance will stand strong when they know who you are? There will be chaos, and the eastern border weakened and ready for the taking like you want it.” The edges of the Duke’s words had fallen into something familiar all those who had dined at court when he ruled would have recognised, either drink or the herbs he must take for his pains clouding his mind and impairing his speech. But still he talked, and Lorenz found himself frozen in place. He would wonder, later, what would have happened if he’d managed to tear himself away. But he didn’t. He didn’t, and he heard every word sharpened with a truth he would never have imagined. Maybe he should have. “When everyone knows... All the nobility, the heads of powerful and minor houses, even the commoners; will they still follow the Almyran Prince, blood of Almyran Kings? I don’t think so. But will they follow the man whom he married and beguiled? The man who blindly fell to your charms and let you rise to power by his side? Of course not! I wanted the House of Gloucester ruined, all of it, and that was the price. Why else would I have you marry the Gloucester heir, if not to leave not one ounce of pride in him once your identity is known?”

And Lorenz fled. For this, he fled. To this, Claude would offer no denial, Lorenz knew deep in his bones. His manners and his eloquence were engaging and refined when he cared—Lady Tiana’s influence, Lorenz had thought. His broad knowledge of numbers and letters, of matters big and small—maybe his father had been a minor Almyran lord, Lorenz had thought. And the way he talked and compelled a full room of nobles into silence? And the innate command he took around the Roundtable, which Lorenz had found himself hard-pressed to wrest away from him on more than one occasion? What of that? What had Lorenz thought of that? 

In his blind haste, he let the door to the Duke’s sitting room carelessly slam shut behind him. No place of his mind was free to offer any prayer that Claude would not notice. 

—

He had to think why there was a knock to his door for a long moment before remembering he’d sent his attendants away. Rather than speak up, he went himself to the door to allow the visitor inside. 

Claude had told him he’d come after answering his grandfather’s summons, of course. He had left Lorenz to go to Duke Riegan’s quarters what felt like years ago. And still it had all happened in the span of one day. All: the glimpse and the crash. He’d been right, not to risk anything. Now he knew what he would lose.

And still he didn’t want to let it go. He clutched the burning embers despite the blisters in his hands. 

If there was no way for it to be worse, he could take a leaf out of Claude’s book. 

He could pretend.

It would dawn soon, but with the curtains closed, only the guttering candles told him how much time had passed. He reproached himself when he realized he had carelessly let them almost wholly burn down, wicks drowning in the melted wax with violent shifts of light that threw shadows across the hangings on the walls. What had taken Claude so long? Had he argued with the Duke all this time? Maybe he had shut himself in his room as Lorenz had. 

Lorenz did not ask. 

“I know I’m late,” Claude began, gingerly, in a tone so different from the lifeless voice he'd turned to his grandfather's insults. He stepped around Lorenz and into the middle of the room, pushing back his hair with hands not as steady as they normally were. “I didn’t mean—” 

Lorenz grabbed the front of his jacket and dragged him into a kiss. 

It was everything the first had been not. Rough and frantic and reckless. Excruciating when, after a sound of surprise, Claude responded, without stopping to think, in kind; his answer an echo of their first kiss; Lorenz felt its ghost in the places Claude touched with that same care he’d already given him once, but not restraining the turbulent rhythm with which Lorenz had begun, instead deepening what Lorenz had meant as shallow, grounding in what Lorenz could only stand as fleeting. 

Still, their teeth clicked, their noses knocked against one another. Lorenz tasted the tang of metal a second after Claude’s teeth nicked his lower lip, and still he pushed past the pain—Claude was the one to wince.

“Lorenz, wait—” Lorenz felt his grip on his shoulders, the way his fingers sank as Lorenz dove in again, but not pushing. Never pushing. Claude’s breath was coming out short, selfsame to Lorenz’s. “I have to tell you something important.” His voice was hoarse. Lorenz chased it; knew its form as it lifted from Claude’s tongue and its home in the curve of his jaw, his beard bristling against Lorenz’s lips; felt the change in it in the vibrations to Claude’s throat when he pressed his lips there and followed an invisible path made of warm skin and unearthing awareness. Was this how it would have felt? Like he hadn’t touched any others before in his life. Was one person supposed to reshape everything? To not be fleeting and inconsequential, but to remain and disassemble and make it all matter--

A hand buried in his hair lightly drew him back. Lorenz feared what Claude would read in his eyes—he should have instead feared what he’d see in Claude’s. Something stood still inside Lorenz with the sight, something that could have been his heart. Less than a day ago, when everything had crumbled in their hands, Lorenz had rested his head on Claude’s shoulder and ignored the warnings and sought comfort. Now like two open wounds Claude’s eyes sought his and Lorenz understood why Claude had so readily spoken of his valley; there was nothing Lorenz would deny him now. When Claude surged forward to kiss him, he was doing what Lorenz had done: the ignoring and the seeking both. Whether he found what he needed or not Lorenz did not know, but the kiss deepened with every surrendered breath, and all Lorenz could do was kiss him back and struggle to remember why the touch of Claude’s hands mapping his body, the very brush of his lips, was supposed to feel jagged. 

It didn’t. Not those clever fingers wound in his hair, not the strong hand sliding down the curve of his spine with the deliberation of man grasping his last lifeline. 

Lorenz learned what to do to make him set his teeth—molars clicking carelessly in his mouth—to find the catch in his breath, the flutter of his pulse beneath the sensitive skin of his neck, a body helpless to respond; honest. 

That was what Lorenz had wanted, wasn’t it? All along, this truth. He would do anything to forget it now. And it was easy, when Claude’s skin burned so. The taste of him both new and not. Lorenz should have stopped then. He didn't. 

“Lorenz, I—”

He found the place behind his jeweled ear that revealed the first shudder from him. 

“Don't,” Lorenz begged him, and stopped his lips with his. 

Of the two of them, Claude had always been the more tactile one. Lorenz had been unable to stop himself from wondering what, in his mind, would constitute privacy. How his hands would fit brushing a cheek or circling a waist in a way that signified a difference for him. He didn’t have to wonder anymore: he could feel, in the fingers brushing his cheek, in the hand around his waist, that difference. It was the one thing he could not have imagined. It was the lightest of pressures, not tentative or weak; instead balance in the instant before he decided to either press on or vanish. Claude kept touching him like Lorenz was supposed to, in a matter of hours, forget it had ever happened if he so chose. 

That was not what Lorenz wanted: that deliberate touch, unchanged and undemanding, it knew him. It would make him falter and regret; even when Lorenz was unheeding of tenderness Claude still held him like it mattered. As if any of it could be persuaded to survive. 

He was drawing back again, like he had hours before, after their first kiss. “I have to. I have to tell you.” In the instant Lorenz hesitated, those deft hands had moved to cradle his face. He was trying to hold his gaze. “Let me tell you, and then—” His earnest eyes wrung the knot inside Lorenz’s chest until he couldn’t breathe anymore. 

He found he’d jerked his head away. Before he could see anything else in Claude's face, he pushed him, but not with a brusque shove and away; one hand to his breastbone, Lorenz guided him a backward step until he understood what the pressure to the back of his legs was. His lips parted around a breath too heavy to inhale, laden with all that words would have failed to convey. Seeing no refusal, Lorenz pushed that one inch further until Claude fell back, unbalanced on the bed. 

Lorenz braced one hand against the bedpost, waiting for a refusal he didn’t know if he wanted or not, and looked down at Claude, half-sprawled on the bed where he’d fallen, leaning back on his hands with one knee bent outwards. 

Because Claude didn’t speak, he came forward and pressed his knee above Claude’s outstretched thigh. 

Lying there, caught between acts, Claude couldn’t separate his thoughts from his countenance, not in a way that was not visible. Lorenz chased the permutation rearranging his features and the lines of his body, from the dip of his eyelashes as his dark eyes took in Lorenz’s body above him and betrayed his interest, to the convulsive bob of his throat, bare yet hiding in the even hue of his skin the place Lorenz had marked. When Lorenz settled over him, across his hips, Claude's hands left their fistfuls of bedding to clutch Lorenz's thighs with half-aborted intent that creased the space between his brows. His eyes had grown almost wholly black. Over Claude's chest, the wild light of the guttering candles found the clasps of the opening of his jacket, and, from their silver, wrought sparrow-quick reflections, as frantic as Claude's laboured breathing. 

He said, “Lorenz,” in a voice excoriated to gravel. Lorenz had to close his eyes when he noticed the hard edges of his vocals. He couldn't answer the question shaped by the silence that followed; all he knew anymore was to seek the warmth being built between them before any words would disallow it. 

Until Claude lay flat on his back, he pushed his chest. Then, found the first clasp of his jacket. Each polished fastening fell open beneath his hands as easy as a knife slicing through butter, until the shirt underneath was the only layer, warmed through by Claude’s skin like a pond heated under the sun and pressed to the taut planes of his stomach. By the time he braced the tremor of his hands on Claude's chest, over the unlaced shirt and nothing else, Claude had dug his fingers in his thighs with what would be a bruising grip if his clothes weren't on the way. Lorenz was helpless to the spill of heat burning up his spine at that, a wave that was heedless to whatever it carried away. 

"I have to tell you who I am.” Claude shook his head, his hair tousled where Lorenz had put his hands. 

Lorenz’s hair fell to spill over his shoulder, curtaining Claude’s face as Lorenz leaned down to kiss him again. In stutters of surging breaths and repressed movements, Claude teetered between the confusion evident in his voice and the longing in the insistence with which he followed Lorenz’s lips as he drew back. As if the one thing he found impossible was to not return the kiss. "Don't you want this?" Lorenz heard in his own voice. 

“I do. Of course I do,” he murmured, breath rushing out of him with those last words. 

The wide collar of his unlaced shirt had fallen askew over his collarbone. It exposed the slant of the chest, a path for Lorenz’s fingertips across the dark hair there. Claude grabbed the fall of Lorenz’s hair—and if it was in thought of stopping him, his muscles locked up; and if it was in thought of guiding, his muscles did not comply—as he mouthed at the bare chest, licked the beads of perspiration from the skin. Claude’s next breath spilled along with it bare sound. Only through steel resolve was he holding himself steady under Lorenz; a restraint of will and denial of desire because his mind couldn't make sense of Lorenz, even if his body understood the promise in Lorenz's offering and was helpless to respond. For a time now, Lorenz had noticed him, because there was no space between their bodies, quickened and roused and pressed against him. Now Lorenz tasted a path down his chest and felt that desire mirrored in his own body, and was unable not to answer to the hitches in Claude’s breathing, to the primed body warm against him, the spikes of tension in it that with a touch were eased into a tremor of yielding Lorenz could not allow himself to explore. From the rise and fall of his chest and the rasp to his intakes of breaths, to the sturdy waist pressed to the inside of Lorenz’s thighs and the indisputable weight of his hands roaming to clasp Lorenz's waist as his restraint was chipped away and exposed the bare strings of that which moved beyond reason; these discoveries did not make of him a new man but shifted the imprint of him inside Lorenz so that no span of time would be left in which the guarded untouchable mind and the surging heat in his touch existed separately, in which Lorenz knew one and not the other. How could he ever have thought having his friendship would be enough? He’d sought the wild honey knowing to expect the sharp sting to follow, but he found himself almost forgetting the pain. Claude’s warmth a balm into which it would be easy to fall--his arm coming to circle Lorenz’s waist and drawing their chests close together, his hand rising to tangle in Lorenz’s hair and expose his throat to the hungry, wet pressure of his lips. And after this, not even his friendship would remain. Nothing broken or split to signify here was something that once held sustenance. Even a candle leaves the trail of smoke to remember that it once gave light. But what would Lorenz have? What were memories? 

He'd even forget, one day, the tune in the hammering of Claude's heart trapped inside his ribcage. Lorenz anchored his hand there over his chest, head tilted back and neck bare for the hot swipe of Claude's mouth. 

And he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pretend. He hadn't wanted to face the truth--he could not wilfuly forget it, either, or separate it from the rest. No matter what it meant for them, he would know Claude whole. This beating heart; this warm, soft mouth and the breath it breathed. 

Lorenz shut his eyes and gave himself over to pure, physical sensation. Only Claude’s limber body and the easy strength with which he turned them around until Lorenz’s back met the rumpled bed cover. Only his calloused fingers intertwined with his own above Lorenz’s head. 

Only his quiet voice, when he said, “You know, don’t you.” He didn’t sound like himself. The undercurrent of tension in Claude’s body had faded. In its suddenness and finality, no surrendering or acceptance. It was the confusion that had gone. Gone and taken with it all traces of conflict just before laced with pent-up hunger. 

A wave of dizziness passed over Lorenz; uncertain relief and unspeakable regret in equal measure that left him weak. He opened his eyes when the heat of Claude’s body drew back from him, his weight vanishing, his touch gone. He pushed himself up, following Claude’s retreating form, and watched Claude scrub a hand over his eyes. The set of his mouth, the only thing visible in his face, twisted into something that neither frustration, nor weariness, nor the leashed anger Lorenz had seen in him since the news from the border arrived had managed to carve from him. After a moment that could have meant either seconds or hours, he lowered his hand, exposed glazed eyes. He said, “You heard my grandfather.” A rueful grimace washed over his lips, vanishing their previous form. “The door that slammed shut.” 

Opening his mouth to answer, he found himself incapable. The breath locked in his chest. 

“You’re trembling.” His elbows were being held, the body above him moving away to sit by his side. Lorenz flinched away from his touch when Claude tried to brush under his eyes. He hated himself for that. He hated the way it made, in the silence, Claude's expression shutter. 

“Yes,” Lorenz found his voice, carelessly wiping his face. “I quite fear your grandfather ruined your surprise.”

“You heard him. You heard him and you thought...what?” Claude didn’t try to touch him again, but neither did he leave the bed. It was this proximity that let Lorenz watch the detail in the pieces that fit into one another and walled the space behind his eyes. And the cracks in them. Claude said, quiet with the realization, “Were you hoping that I’d hurt us both enough for this to be unsalvageable?” Because he spoke softly, he could manage to hold together the jagged words, and breathed them out without any tide breaking over them.

Lorenz had learned a lot from him these past few months. His throat ached with it, but he answered Claude with that same tone devoid of the frantic panic and hurt and anger that wanted to climb out of his mouth. “What could there be to salvage from a lie?” 

“It wasn’t a lie, none of it was.” He repeated, “None of it. If I’d realised what my grandfather intended, I would never have—”

“Hid who you were? Rode with me in the morning or took my hand like any of it—any of it—could stay? This is not about what Duke Riegan intended. Don’t you see, this is over the moment you tell me who you are.” His voice lost its balance with the question, “What am I doing with the King of Almyra?”

Claude frowned. “You are too quick to kill my father.”

“Do not mock me,” Lorenz rasped. “If I am too hasty you are too slow. You will be King, where does that leave me?” The memory turned his blood to ice. “Where Duke Riegan said? Prideless and ridiculed?”

Claude flinched from his words. He said, “He is a cruel man blinded by vengeance. I know I’ve asked this of you too much, I know I have no proof, but believe me when I say I never saw it like that. I married you because I wanted power to change things, just like you wanted power to rule the Alliance. That was it,” he insisted with vehemence. His throat worked in one convulsive swallow. “You think I planned to fall in love with you?” Lorenz’s eyes swung up towards his. “It’s never been like this. I didn’t know how to stop it from happening." The words were rushing out of him. "And I didn’t want to. I wanted you to know who I was—I’d have told you before anything else happened between us—not only because it was fair to you but because—” He clenched his jaw against the words—a muscle jumped there, tight under the skin. “Because I wanted to. It wasn’t a lie,” he added, quiet, “when I told you I wanted to show you the places important to me.” 

Lorenz had wanted that too, with an intensity until then unknown. He had imagined it, kept returning to the green valley Claude had spoken of. Only it all was distorted if there was the palace in the background; if the Almyran crown hung heavy over Claude’s brow. Claude added, quiet, “It was not deception I was after, only caution.” 

“It does not matter anymore, does it? Even if you’d told me. There is nowhere for us to go. You say you did not plan for it," Lorenz surmised; it hurt all the more for its brevity, "and there is nothing to plan for anymore.” 

Claude shook his head. His eyes made it impossible to look away from him. “It matters to me.” 

“Do you want me to say that I believe you?" His next intake of breath trembled in failure to hide the painful truth. "That I have learned to distinguish the shape of your lips when you lie? That I now know how you look while speaking of things you hold dear? And I never believed Duke Riegan's words about how you had used me—you could tell whatever lies you wanted but never hide the truth of your hands. And just a moment ago I would have let you make me forget about everything that was not you.” 

Claude had hidden his eyes from the words. When he opened them, they trailed down Lorenz’s face, and he didn’t speak until Lorenz had wiped at his face and taken a calming breath. Claude said, “Is that it? Forget? If I thought you’d forgive me—” His lips twisted. “But I thought you didn’t want any more lies from me.” He turned away, impatiently pushing his hair back from his face, and sat on the edge on the bed, head bent low. Claude said, almost to himself, “And I can’t pretend to be who I’m not. Not when it comes to this.”

Lorenz spoke to his bowed back. “Not only when it comes to this. You cannot have the best interest of two opposite kingdoms at heart. Even if there is no war, even if the border remains peaceful, even if Duke Riegan never reveals your identity…” Lorenz took in a deep breath; still, his voice hitched when he next demanded, “What were you possibly thinking?” Almost with no notice Lorenz found himself copying Claude’s position, some unquenchable impulse to look at his face moving him to sit by his side. Without touching him. “Rule Leicester in summer and Almyra in winter?”

“Why separately?” Claude asked of his hands, joined between his knees. “We could stand united, together, at some point.” He lifted his head. “One land, one people.” 

Lorenz failed to see whence the words came. Failed to see what it took to say them, at that moment. Until he murmured, shocked, “There is no way to do that on your own,” and Claude tore his gaze away, an uneven scoff rolling from his lips in disbelief. 

He quietened. He spoke. “I thought I wasn’t on my own.”

If Claude had reached inside him and twisted whatever he found there inside, it would have felt like this. “With what authority,” Lorenz said, shaking his head against the hoping in his heart, “would I convince the council to consider a union, when everyone will think what your grandfather said? That you fooled me, that you—”

“—seduced you?” Claude gritted out, eyes narrowed. 

“Do not put words in my mouth.”

“It’s what you were going to say.”

“It is what they will think!” Lorenz snapped. “And I know you don’t care about rumours or gossip or others’ opinions but the moment it is known that I married the prince of an enemy kingdom I will have no place to stand on, the council will not listen, the Roundtable may even vote me away. Hoping otherwise will not change anything.”

"I…" His breath stuttered out of his chest, once; with it, something seemed else to go out of him. Maybe it was all the fight, or the resistance, or whatever had allowed him to kiss Lorenz and tell him of his life in Almyra and hope. Lorenz's mouth was dry as Claude shook his head: there was no denial in his downcast eyes, no stubborn fight in the defeated slump of his shoulders. “I should have known what he'd try to do to you,” he murmured, not looking at him. “I was too naive. You’re right. I should have known what my grandfather wanted, I… All I did was hurt you.” His shoulders strained upright, and he was pushing away from the bed, moving as if through fog. Lorenz was left blinking dust from his eyes in his wake. 

Lorenz rose after him. “Wait!” 

“No,” Claude swung around to face him, “you’re right.” A bitter laugh. “My duty will call me to Almyra eventually. I thought I could hide who I was long enough to make a difference here and when I returned… It doesn’t matter. My grandfather will not let that happen. This is the only way to stop what he wants.”

With every step Claude took in silence, walking away, and every word that vanished from Lorenz’s mouth before he could speak it, the hammer fell swifter—Lorenz knew there would be no coming back from this. He had wanted to return to that first recognition—Claude’s lips on his and suddenly everything easier and brighter—and for what little time it was allowed him forgo this new knowledge and the consequences mercilessly set in motion by an old man’s bitter revenge. And Claude hadn’t pushed him away. He hadn’t. He hadn’t, and he had now. It was what Lorenz would have wanted, if the alternative would have been bearing a touch that was a lie. But he had grasped truth instead, and only after been severed from it, left with all these ribbons of himself that stretched with every slow step Claude took away from him. What Lorenz wished he could rip off from deep inside him and cast away would not die but thrashed like a wild animal caught in a trap. 

“You’re leaving in hours,” he realized across the distance Claude had put between them. 

Claude stopped. He didn’t turn around when he said, “I’m still our best shot at preventing war." Then, colder than he'd sounded before, "Are you going to stop me?”

The pointed question landed where Claude must have wanted. It hurt. It angered him. He didn't know whether one or the other were in his voice when he answered. “You were going to tell me who you were, weren’t you?” He would not wonder how it would have been, if they had had that chance. If the truth had not been tainted with Duke Riegan’s vengeance. “You would not have planned to tell me if you had feared my stopping you.”

That turned him around. He leveled one curious gaze at Lorenz. It hadn't been coldness in his voice, or if it had, it had only been the shell around the core. Lorenz watched the sad curl to his lips; it changed that familiar curiosity, that cock of the head, into something unknown. “If you’d been that kind of man,” Claude acknowledged, “this would have been easier.” 

Anything, Lorenz thought, would have been easier than this. That they had come so far, and now Lorenz trusted him with the future of the Alliance offered no comfort. What they wanted ran deeper. What they wanted had ceased to be possible even before they had wanted it. 

When Lorenz’s sight unblurred he saw Claude had stopped before the door to fix his clothes. He froze with a hand inside the pocket of his jacket. Lorenz watched him hesitate—the last unarmored part he saw of him—before retrieving something from it, something small that fit inside his palm. “I was going to give you this. Before.” 

Lorenz could not speak past the lump in his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

"Whether you throw it away or not, it’s yours." So tired, he sounded. "But I can’t keep it.” Despite his words, he put it down on the vanity by the door, among glass-stoppered vials of perfumes, with a guarded grip. 

And suddenly the distance between them seemed larger than before. And he was leaving for a place so close to his home as to taste it in the air. Lorenz shot forward. “Are you coming back?” He must. The possibility of never seeing him again—

One hand on the doorknob, Claude looked over his shoulder and tried an unbearable smile. “Would you want me to?” In his voice, not the barest trace of it could be heard. 

Lorenz could not answer him, he couldn't even hold his gaze—he had been the one to put that wall back in his eyes, that painful smile on his lips. 

And in a blink of the eyes he was gone. 

Lorenz staggered back until the bed rose to catch his weight. 

Faced with the closed door, with the empty room and the final stillness in the air, once not even the tremors of the latch clicking in place echoed in the room, faced with the scent his bed had made its own in the short moment Claude had lain there, Lorenz could think of no instance he wouldn’t want to see him again _.  _ But wouldn’t that delay the inevitable? Even if he could keep his identity a secret forever, Claude would be king, some day. He would lead a life that wasn’t for Lorenz to share. 

Maybe if Lorenz were the type of man who would ask him to take him away. But he wasn’t. And the Alliance could not be left unprotected for his father to take. And however confident Claude was, if there was war...

His shoulders were bowing forward until his face was buried in his hands; everything weighed him down, and suddenly all the hours he had spent awake made themselves known and shot fatigue across every nerve. He could not move to get up and relight the candles once they had blinked out, or open the curtains to the soon-to-be dawn, eyes unseeing—brimming with what could have been, and now would never be—long before the last candle had flickered out.

—

—

Cyril had said his goodbyes to Lysithea many times already. 

First, there was that time she had left for the Eastern Church for some weeks. Then he had not dared look into her eyes too much, in case the future missing he was already doing betrayed him. 

Then, she had been supposed to return to Ordelia territory for an unspecified amount of time. After the assassination attempt, she had stayed. He could not pair the former with any joy that may have been derived from it, but if he thought about the events separately, he learned to glow with it. She was still here. 

It was him that was leaving now. He had already said goodbye, extensively—not even his Prince knew what they were walking into. 

Returning to Claude’s room he thought at first he hadn’t arrived yet. Claude had been supposed to tidy up the maps they had pored over hours before, between his meetings, to know what routes their battalions would take. He hadn't. That, on itself, was not strange. Often dismissive of what he did not consider of an importance without delay, always untidy and messy, he was. And he was there, looking outside the window, towards the mountains the dawning sun was beginning to lit up. 

Inattentive or careless was one thing he never was. Cyril called him twice and still Claude did not turn or acknowledge his presence. 

Cyril frowned. 

His Prince had always been a... weird person, from the first time they'd met, with him disguised as a servant of House Goneril's come to take those indentured servants who wished to return to Almyra with him. Even then, though a teenager still, merely four years older than Cyril, his jaw not still shadowed and his body almost lanky, shoulders a pale shadow of the breadth they were today, he had looked ancient to Cyril. Or not ancient but smart. Containing endless possibilities. Cyril followed him and found people said he wasn't a true Almyran. Weak-willed, weak of body. Cyril had spent much of his life in a village that continually changed hands, that was wanted by lords or kings who moved on to forget its existence the minute the other side didn’t fight for it anymore. To him, who had grown up either fighting for something he didn’t understand or serving people who didn't understand him, Claude was the first thing to ever make sense. 

It was because he had stayed, watched him become the man he was today, that he knew something was wrong. Claude remained unresponsive to Cyril's complaints about the maps he had failed to pick up from the floor and the clothes he hadn’t packed for the journey. Too quiet. 

He grew tired and called him what he had drilled into his head not to call him as long as they were away from Almyra.

Like one of his bows, he tensed. Slowly, he turned around. There was a dazed look to his eyes that alerted Cyril, at once, of poisons or hidden pains that could threaten his life. When he'd insisted on taking that first walk around the gardens after being stabbed, and had had to climb down the stairs and then up them again, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister, he had looked like this. "What's wrong?" Cyril blurted at once. 

"Mm?” He frowned. “Nothing’s wrong." Belatedly, "I told you not to call me that here." He ran a hand through his hair. “We’re leaving.”

“Yes.” Cyril said slowly, “Holst filled me in. The order is for noon—”

“Now. The sooner we leave, the sooner we arrive and fix this before any more people die. Nader is fighting as we speak. You’re already all set, aren’t you?”

He turned from the window without closing it and, without waiting for Cyril’s answer, began opening drawers and pulling out garments. Thick wools for the hard ride ahead and the lower temperatures of the nights they would need to spend outdoors. Leathers that prioritized comfort and suited the long trip. Claude knew when waiting was necessary. He must have known leaving early would mean their horses would reach twilight wearier than they were supposed to for the first day, that they would need more provisions and heavier carts. And that if everything could be ready on time. The leader’s presence in the courtyard would unnecessarily harass the soldiers carrying out the preparations. But Claude knew all that. He had still decided to proceed. In a whirlwind of sudden activity, he discarded silk capes and glossy tunics, soft shoes and velvet jackets—

Something clinked against the floor. 

Cyril was the only one who noticed. He bent to pick it up. A thin hairpin glittered in his palm, one elegant gem giving a shade of purple in its nest of latticed silver. “What’s this?” 

But Claude had moved on from the clothes. Now he was busy folding maps and bundling them on the table. “Finders keepers. Don’t ever say I don’t give you anything.” 

He hadn’t even looked at it. “No,” Cyril insisted. There was only one person Claude had frequent contact with who’d wear something like this. “I think it’s Lorenz’s.” 

Because he was squinting at it against the light, trying to remember if he’d ever seen it in Lorenz’s hair or his was just an assumption, he didn’t notice Claude until he was right in front of him.

“What?”

Cyril showed it to him. As if instead of a pin it was something sharpened to cut, Claude didn’t take it from his palm. He barely reached toward it and then jerked his hand back. “You’re right,” he murmured. He met Cyril’s gaze for a second and then swung back to map-folding. 

“Why do you have it?” Cyril wondered. 

“New Year.” As if the map was resisting its fate, Claude bit out, “The dance. He had his hair up and I could not keep still, of course, and so I took the pins and… It must have gotten stuck in my pocket when I gave him the others.” He looked up, in realization, “He never said anything.” He exhaled a quiet breath that may have been a laugh. It may have been also, by the sound of it, the last breath in his lungs. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You can leave it where you found it, a servant will find it.”

“Leave it,” Cyril observed, reticent, “on the floor.” 

Claude glowered. “Give it to him, then.” 

“Me?” he scoffed. “You wouldn't return Lysithea’s handkerchief no matter how much I begged.” In the calm that followed, he realized what he’d implied. Claude was universally friendly and outgoing, so it may not have been readily apparent to most. If Cyril had noticed he had, in the last weeks, cut glances toward Lorenz in a way Cyril had never seen him do before, or talked about him without realizing the warmth in his voice, he was not going to mention it. Of the two of them, one must be the one with subtlety and restraint. And he was his Prince. Still and always. “I didn’t mean—” 

“Didn’t you?” Claude contended. He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t lash out at you. It’s fine.” He rose to shoulder his bag. He surveyed the room one last time. The litter of clothes over the bed it became apparent he didn’t plan to do anything about, the books he still was to return to the library. Claude turned to the door. In a couple of strides, though, he walked back, and, without looking at it, took the hairpin still lying on Cyril’s palm. “There, I’ll see he gets it back.”

Cyril tested the words before saying them. It wasn’t until Claude was unlocking the door that he ventured, “Did something happen?” 

Claude’s shoulders tensed. He filled his lungs with a long intake of air, his head bowed. Cyril may have imagined him looking down at the pin in his hand, his thumb brushing the gem that even in the shadow gave a shimmer. Then, hand returning to his side, fist holding inside the silver filigree, “Something?” His laughter was hollow. “Something like we’re on the brink of a war I don’t know that I’ll be able to stop and I can’t stand with one foot on each side of the border forever? Or something,” he went on, in a terrible voice Cyril had never heard before, “like Lorenz found out who I am and I wasn’t even the one to tell him and he can’t stand to look at me anymore?” 

Before Cyril could even think what to offer to the reality heavy even in the deceitfully light tone, the door was open, Claude gone. Doing his best to calm the alarms Claude had set in his head, Cyril followed, taking one last look at the room and now wondering if he’d ever see it again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise guest appearance from cyril!! (i hope it wasn't too jarring, after having only lorenz and claude as pov? but i wanted to try it, short as it may have been, not only bc i love cyril and his rship with claude but bc i find it rlly interesting when authors show how low a character is from another character's pov? i think it adds some sort of privacy for the character who is not having the greaest time while also highlighting how they show it, and how well the pov character knows this person... 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments!! hope everything's well wherever you are <3


	14. XIV

Either the creaking of carts in motion, the whinnies of horses in excitement, or the cries of soldiers in farewell, which rose to his window from the courtyard, pulled Lorenz from his sleepless doze. The exhaustion not only of body but of mind that held its swaying edge over him had not been merciful enough to grant him unconsciousness. The leniency of confusion, the blessing of for one moment imagining it was but one more morning and one more waking, the knot in his chest temporary, was not for him. 

The sounds of a battalion leaving served to move him to sit, uncomprehending. He carried his blunt headache and his swollen eyes from supine to prone and knew the day was unfolding and he still hadn’t found a way in which what he’d learned did not color his mind with shades of powerlessness. Not even Claude had known how they could exist as they had before. How could Lorenz? By noon, he would be gone and every step Lorenz had tried to take in his direction had ended in failure. 

By noon? 

It was not yet noon and the battalion was leaving. 

All too suddenly, what he hadn’t yet found the means to mend was beyond his reach. Lorenz dashed towards the window. All he could see was the rearguard and the mules that would carry the provision carts at a slower pace. If he had ached for confusion before, he no longer did so. What was Claude thinking?

With no thought of what he would do once he reached the parting procession, he sprinted for the door, and past his antechamber, and—

The doors that would have led him to the corridor burst open towards him. He halted, took one harried step back in his surprise. 

And then another, this time not in surprise but recoil from the man he saw in front of him. 

All those times he had, as a boy, rushed out towards the wrought iron gates of the estate to welcome him home from his hunts or his business—and been acknowledged but with a gesture—scrambled inside Lorenz’s head as if in mocking reflection. Only this time, Lorenz had to force himself to stay in place and look into those eyes that, past the need of the veneer of affection, coldly swept over him. Lorenz swallowed around the knot in his throat. His voice would not falter. 

“Father.”

—

—

His mother had stood barefoot on the sand the last time he’d seen her, the wind that geared up the roaring waves sending whips of her dark hair across her face and billowing around her head. Barbarossa had soared above them, not one to covet the proximity of the strange ocean she always found too cold. He had been watching her white shape weave between clouds, trying to carve the image in his mind for the long months to come while he’d be gone. He had never left her, not since she had cracked the egg so many years ago; a white, weakened creature, tinier than her siblings and, according to the wyvern master, condemned to suffer an early death abandoned by a mother that shunned her otherness, had tumbled into his hands and snuggled into the folds of his clothes seeking his warmth. He'd been prompted to choose another of the newborn wyverlings from among the brood just hatched, all of them with swirls of emerald green over their brows and said to grow to be the fiercest, their scales a shiny black and not the bloodless paleness of the one trembling, fighting to survive, in his hands. 

He had not let go. He had made sure, day after day, that she had enough food to grow up healthy. 

Now none were as swift in the air as she. 

Tiana was watching him. 

He had wondered, then, if she’d ever regret showing him the letter her father had written, asking to start a correspondence with her son. The Archduke had had something to offer: come claim your Riegan legacy. A bargain to struck: help me expose my son's murderer. He had said yes. Yes. 

They had already discussed everything. Tiana had already told him of the dangers he was courting. Nothing much remained to be said, really. The sun would set soon and the cold of the night would throw them out of the humid beach and back towards the palace. He would never know what his mother saw in his face—if it was the sudden, unquenchable doubts; or the steel determination she’d taught him; or the thought that maybe an albino wyvern would not cause much upheaval at Derdriu and he could after all keep Barbarossa by his side. 

He didn’t know. Tiana said, “Always, there’s something you must give up, the moment a crossroads appears.” She had had her gaze lost on the waves. “It doesn’t mean you can’t choose what it is.” She shifted her eyes to him; they showed a rare seriousness, very bright and very green. “What’s important is that you know, always, what it is you’re letting go of. And that it is you who chooses it.” The calloused palm of her hand warm against his cheek, her smile almost rueful. “Never let it be chosen for you, Khalid.”

He had chosen to give up nothing, was the thing. And so if now he had lost it all, he could blame himself alone. 

He had read and reread his grandfather's letter what seemed eons ago, and had wanted, and hoped for more, and thought finally. 

Finally there within his grasp what he had never admitted to anyone out loud. How he wished for no more drawn borders, no imagined differences, no outsiders, no more senseless endless war. 

Now, Derdriu shrank smaller and smaller behind him, and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching inside his pocket and feeling with ungloved fingertips the slender ridges of the hairpin; the blunter edges of the amethyst that dug into his palm every time he closed his hand around it. He didn’t need to look at it, in this sea of mist the morning had awoken to, to remember how it had looked buried in Lorenz’s hair or how it had felt to reach for every one of its siblings and watch Lorenz’s flush of joy at the end of the dance. No matter what he did, he could not forget, either, how Lorenz had looked when the truth of what he’d discovered had at last seeped into his face—there had been no rejection there, only hurt. Claude had never learnt how to face Lorenz’s hurting; most of all, it had turned out, the kind he had put there himself. And so he clasped a hairpin until the silverwork bit into his skin and the stone dug its edges into his palm; and he wanted, and realised it would not be so, and thought at last.

At long last the truth, which had festered inside of him for so long now, revealed, out in the open, and the weak flame of hope that had grown against his will, which Lorenz had fed with every stolen glance, extinguished. 

He had chosen none of it. 

But he’d start now. 

One hour after dawn, he had left because Lorenz’s proximity would have been too great a temptation. Temptation to go back into his room and accept whatever denial and pretend he wanted. He’d resented being a prince for most of his childhood, back when assassins had been something new and frightful, why not give it up for good? 

He had stopped before realising how close to considering it he’d actually come. He couldn’t return to Lorenz with a bloody stump and expect it not to stain everything. No matter how blurry the limits, Claude von Riegan was still someone only half real, who had never seen the colors of the sun breaching the horizon from a wyvern's back, looking at how easily the light traveled, not discriminating one land from another. Who would have died when the assassins were sent after him. 

Who selfishly clung to the shape of Lorenz's lips and the warmth of his body, the arch of his spine when he'd kissed the column of his throat. 

He could only bring himself to regret it if he thought about what had come right after, what would happen when his grandfather decided to speak up.

And who was the one with the most to lose if Claude couldn’t keep his secret from the people of Leicester? Was he so selfish he would risk Lorenz’s future and the position he had fought, all of his life, so hard for? The position that had given him at last freedom from his father’s control. 

The answer didn’t really matter. He had already risked Lorenz’s standing the moment he had married him. If his goals had not blinded him, he may have discovered what his grandfather had hidden from him back when he could have done something about it.

“The mist goes on for miles, Your Grace.” 

Claude looked up, towards the voice. Cyril had not spoken to him since his outburst, not churlish but uncertain of what to say. There were only so many distracted responses or sullen silences Judith would tolerate before falling back to ride with someone else, either Holst or Hilda, or Marianne who’d also chosen to accompany them. 

It was the scout he’d sent ahead, who had appeared at his right. “It isn’t receding?” Claude asked. 

“Not at all, Your—” 

The spray of warm blood dotted across Claude’s face. 

Recoiling, he barely had time to see the arrow that had sunk in the scout’s neck before the next one fell. The riderless horse reared up in pain, eyes wild, and sprinted for the cover of trees. 

Claude wrenched his horse around. Before he could cry a warning he saw others falling, randomly and without order. In the mist, who knew how many were hidden. Up in trees or even stalking close behind. They hadn’t made a sound. 

Judith and Cyril were riding to shield him. He would not let them. “We cannot make a stand here!” he shouted, raising his voice over the tumult of confusion and death to make all hear. His mare tensed under him, sensitive to the scent of blood and the sudden cries of shock and pain from those wounded. He clenched the reins, tightened his thighs around her flanks, and kept her from rearing up. “Everyone ride for the forest!”

His cry was echoed by Leonie, and then he heard Holst’s thunderous bellow for those in the rearguard, and had the relief of watching most of the soldiers react and follow. Plenty of them could not. 

“Come on!” Cyril yelled. Two arrows were sprouting from the shield strapped to his forearm and risen above their heads. “They'll start aiming for the horses if we do not move!” 

Claude tore his eyes from the bodies littering the path and did not make Cyril tell him again. 

They rode for the forest. 

—

"Your husband learned who you were," Judith was saying hours later, through gritted teeth, "and not one day later his soldiers are shooting arrows at you?"

In the empty library her words were very loud. Claude slowly let out air through his nose. They’d been circling over the same subject ever since they had taken refuge in Riegan territory, just a few miles south of Derdriu. "That they wore Gloucester colours does not mean—"

"Doesn't it!" Judith cut in. She shook her head. "What stand are you hoping to make here in Riegan's old keep? We won’t be able to hold for long. We should continue our journey for the border like we were supposed to." 

"I told you,” Claude insisted, as he had been doing for a while now, “I can't.” He shook his head. “I won’t. If Derdriu falls to Count Gloucester then there will be no stopping him.”

“And if war breaks across the border?” 

“It won’t. I’ve already spoken to Holst. He will go on with a small contingent and carry my missive. And that will have to be enough for the time being. The border will hold. I trust Nader and,” he swallowed hard past the knot in his throat at the memory of Lorenz's voice— _ Do you truly not trust him?, _ “and I trust Holst, too. They will settle it until I arrive and explain all that happened.” 

_ “If  _ you arrive. You have half a band of mercenaries to do what? Penetrate a city’s defenses? You are risking your life on the belief the Gloucester boy will not turn on you, when he may already have!” 

“He hasn’t. Why is it so hard to believe?”

“Why are  _ you  _ so sure? You’ve told me how much he distrusted you. How much he resented the marriage. I was the one who told him about the cook who was drugging your food, because you would not be persuaded to trust him with even that! And now, when your life is at risk—” 

“That was before!” Claude snapped. Judith’s eyes widened at the outburst, but all too soon they were narrowing, zeroing in on something he didn’t want her to see. 

“You can’t possibly mean...” 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, in a less brusque tone. He turned his back to her to let his eyes roam over the map they had found amidst the dusty rows of shelves and now lay displayed on the table. It told him nothing he didn’t already know: Riegan territory could not feasibly be defended with the soldiers he had and taking Derdriu without any ships or aerial forces was suicide. He still felt Judith’s gaze. “The day after the wedding… Lorenz’s drink was poisoned. It was not lethal, and it was just done to frame me, of course. But you've read Leonie's report, you know Count Gloucester was seen entering the city. Lorenz may not want my help, or even to see me, now that he knows who I am, but I won’t leave him there, with the man who tried to poison him. Will you send word to Daphnel for reinforcements or not?” 

“You’re as stubborn as your mother,” Judith sighed, allowing the anger to slowly seep out of her. After an intercession of quiet she added: “You know, I tried to stop her from leaving the Alliance, all those years ago. I thought she was making a terrible mistake, ruining her life.” Judith joined him, gaze lost on the map and voice lost on the memories. “I refused to go see her until she wrote she had had a child. Tiana, a mother?” A scoff. “That, I had to see.” She slightly shook her head. “Turned out I’d been wrong all along; she had the life she wanted, the life she chose for herself, and was the happiest I’d ever seen her.” Her lips curled into something not quite a smile. “I’ll send my quickest messenger for troops. But I hope I’m wrong now, too, boy.” She touched his shoulder, and was gone. 

Claude shut his eyes, letting his hands on the table support his weight. Ever since deciding to send Holst ahead with a small retinue, he’d been unable to think of his next step. It was impossible. He knew it was impossible. The moment he marched into Derdriu nobody would see him as the leader of the Alliance, but as the Almyran Prince coming to invade their peaceful lives. He’d had to double check when Leonie had told him she would remain under his command, even if she added with her next breath that only as long as she and her mercenaries were getting paid. Hilda and Marianne’s stay had been less surprising: they could not reconcile the Lorenz they knew with the man who had, supposedly, sent soldiers to capture Claude dead or alive, in the process raining arrows on their whole entourage. Claude had explained all he could about the failed investigation on Lorenz’s father, having to rely on their trust, with no evidence to support his words—he had left every piece of evidence in the palace. Despite what had happened, he hadn’t truly believed he’d never see Lorenz again. He'd thought he'd return. As if it ever were that easy.

The evidence was as good as nonexistent if nobody found it and made use of it. Lorenz had never even asked where he kept the documents that would help him reveal his father’s true intentions. 

It was too late now. 

“Come in,” he called when someone knocked on the door. 

Cyril appeared balancing a tray on one arm, struggling to close the heavy library doors one-handed. The kitchens hadn’t been prepared to feed the troops, even the diminished numbers that had arrived after the archers and mages plucked whoever they could reach from among them. They had still tried their best. But Claude had had no stomach to go down to the dining hall. He should have guessed somebody would take action if he didn’t. 

“You didn’t have to,” he sighed. 

“I know.” Cyril left the tray on a corner of the table. 

They hadn’t always gotten along. After he and Nader infiltrated House Goneril and took those who wished so back to the capital, Cyril had wrinkled his nose whenever Claude, or any other related to the royal family, approached; the King had failed the people struggling to survive on the border for years and years of armed conflict that sapped the life of the land and pushed young lives to serve an army that was doomed to shed blood. Cyril had not seen past that, at first. It still amazed Claude that he had at all. 

It was why he asked, “Do you think I should go with Holst?”

One of Cyril's fingers had been hovering over the map, tracing the mountain range that some times, such as at that moment, seemed as wide as it was tall; from every side Claude could think of, as impregnable as the ancient stone that formed it was unfeeling. Cyril looked up with wide eyes. “You’re asking me?” he frowned. 

“You know Nader.” Claude shrugged. “I told Judith he’d listen to Holst and heed my words but…”

“Nader may.” Cyril rubbed his jaw. “There may also be other generals on the field.” Their eyes locked. “You have another plan.” 

“I have a...request. I will only speak it if you give me your word you will listen to it as such. It’s no royal order.” 

As he spoke, he reached behind his ear and removed the silver earring he’d worn since the ceremony that had seen him become the Crown Prince of Almyra and official heir of the throne. Even if the title carved on the inside of it was not, the simple ring of silver was almost weightless. 

Cyril’s voice carried weight enough. “What are you asking?”

“To stop war, maybe.” He grinned. “No pressure.” Claude went on before Cyril could give voice to the long-suffering breath he inhaled. “I  _ am  _ serious. Holst may carry my letter but only you can truly speak for me and expect to be heard. Especially if you carry this.” He twirled the earring around one finger. “Even with Judith’s reinforcements, I can’t hope to take Derdriu.”

A grimace crossed Cyril’s face. “Then why are you—”

“I can’t take Derdriu, but Lorenz, with the right backup, can. Holst will let the Immortal Corps fly over the Locket and towards Derdriu. Nader and the rest of the generals are bound to answer my call, but they won’t trust Holst enough to drop their weapons. It’s up to you to tell them that I need their help and that their prize will be the capture of the man responsible for the destruction of the villages.” 

“What will you do meanwhile?” Cyril asked dazedly. “It will take me at least a week to get there.”

“You’d go with Holst. I don’t want you rushing on your own,” he warned. “So, don’t worry about the time, I’ll figure it out. I can defend this old fort for a while. Unleash small skirmishes around the city walls for distraction. Most of all, try to get word to Lorenz. We can go from there.” 

“And you’re sure Lorenz will answer?”

Cyril was not questioning Lorenz’s loyalty as Judith had. It was worse—he was giving voice to the dark doubts plaguing Claude’s mind and eating up his insides. “I have to be,” Claude answered, voice low. No matter how far the Count wished to pressure Lorenz, he had leverage to negotiate with his father. He may not know where Claude had hidden the evidence, but he could lead his father on, maybe even guess—he was smart enough, he knew enough about Claude. Even if the Count tried to discredit his own son, the council would back Lorenz up once he agreed to denounce Claude and expose how, if he’d betrayed anyone, it had been Lorenz worst of all. Lorenz was honest, everyone knew that. 

That would be enough to hold the Count’s advance for a week in the least. It had to be. 

“I know what I am choosing, Cyril. I know what I may have to give up. I can’t leave Lorenz and Lysithea trapped in there and do nothing.”

The hand Cyril extended to take the earring from Claude did not waver. He hadn’t accepted yet. “You’ve thought about what they will say, then. In Almyra.”

“Yes." He knew what would happen--what had probably started happening the moment he left. He knew it as surely as he'd once known how a new bow looked splintered, bereft of shape, there in the courtyard where he'd first learned how to nock an arrow; the same courtyard where he'd wielded an axe until his fingers bled, and still he heard the endless taunts, in a voice which he'd been taught to recognize as family. "We both know this is the chance my brother has been waiting for to gather support and establish himself as the first in line for the crown. I can deal with him dragging my name through the mud after we’ve solved this. It’s not about Leicester or Almyra anymore.”

“I think it never was, for you. It’s always been about the people.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “It’s why I chose to stay with you, so long ago.” When had he grown so much? He even sounded like Nader when he said, relentless where he’d once been stripped of every ounce of belief in those who should have protected him: “That’s how a King should be. That’s the only King I would follow.” 

The hand Cyril clasped Claude’s left forearm with left no room for doubts. For once speechless, Claude could only tighten his grip around Cyril’s arm, with his other hand touch his own chest, above his heart as Cyril did too, in the way of the formal salute that was promise and recognition both, oath and fealty and, above all, a parting gesture between brothers in arms before a battle. 

\--

Cyril left with Holst and his troops the next day. What followed involved a lot of hours locked in the library, trying to materialize into being a path through the forest and into Derdriu and the palace that would let him reach Lorenz. It was useless. When Leonie received word from some of her mercenaries that had remained undercover in Derdriu, Claude felt the water rise to his neck. The palace was locked up, nobody in or out. The streets ran hot with the betrayal of their Almyran leader; cold when some started saying the Gloucester heir had known who Claude was all along and allowed him to be by his side. 

The Minister of Justice was said to have mentioned, in confidence, that Lorenz could not be trusted to lead them anymore, if they wanted a chance against the Almyran invasion. Every pair of eyes had turned to him when Leonie had told that news in the library, their impromptu council room. Even if each held something different—pain in Marianne’s, anger in Hilda’s, worry in Judith’s—none had offered any answers. 

He didn't know who was making the wheels turn anymore. This was what his grandfather had wanted. That it came from Count Gloucester instead was as chilling as it was unsurprising. 

Every morning he woke and hoped Lorenz would publicly appear. 

Nothing. 

The week was not even halfway through. 

“We’ve had two more sightings of movements in the forest, but no scouts have approached the keep yet,” Leonie said the second morning after Cyril left. “It is too easy to pick them up if they leave the safety of the foliage, so they won’t. But still, they’re doing their scouting and it will not be long until they see the keep’s defenses are not the best they could be and decide to attack.” She sighed. "Goddess knows why they aren't bringing this old thing down on our heads. It wouldn't take much." 

But Leonie didn’t need to expound on the multiple issues at hand. Of the keep, of the greater numbers and power of their enemies, of the disadvantage of all that remained unknown to them. As things were, already Claude felt that every oak surrounding the keep hid a pair of eyes following their every move. He kept his gaze ahead and tried not to let his wariness leak into his mare’s nerves and unsettle her. “Were the supplies I had sent to you useful?” 

Leonie snickered. “You mean do the old clothes and straw dummies you sent resemble all the soldiers we do not have? So far, they seem to be doing the job.” She added, when she saw Claude’s gloating smile; “Did you hear the ‘so far’?”

Before he could defend his idea, Judith cut in, riding ahead of them, “Is this the place?” 

“Yes,” Leonie answered, dismounting as well. “I’ve had reports the whole night about movement in this area. Some say it could be a scout, but I doubt they would be this unsubtle. Maybe it’s a wild beast?” 

That was Claude’s cue to remain atop his horse, from where he could scan the poor view of the horizon the thick foliage allowed. Behind them the sun was dawning and the clear morning would show the easy path towards the keep, big and old and imposing only if one did not know how decrepit it actually was. All who had welcomed his impromptu party: one steward, almost as old as Duke Riegan, and a handful of cooking boys and scullery maids. No guard to speak of unless one wanted the master at arms to break a hip. It was just as he remembered from the time he had spent there before finally traveling to Derdriu. His grandfather hadn’t bothered to improve anything. Maybe he hadn’t thought it worth it, with the time he had left. 

And before? Before, the Riegan House had had no reason to take care of a property they planned never to inhabit if Derdriu continued to host the seat of power. And if they continued to sit there. But now the diminished House of Riegan had but one old man to its name. Godfrey was dead. His mother would never come back. The reveal of his true identity would amuse future historians, but probably nobody who had heard the news at Derdriu was laughing now. Especially not his grandfather. He wondered whether Count Gloucester would let him live. He wondered if he cared, after what he’d done. “You say it might be a beast  _ now?”  _ he asked Leonie. 

Her eyes remained unimpressed. “You have your magical bow, don’t you?” 

So had Godfrey, he didn’t say. He tried to ignore the eerie atmosphere of a forest just awaking and what it could be hiding. The twittering of birds had long ago become a constant companion, since they’d left the stables. 

“It shouldn’t be a beast,” Claude said, ignoring her dig. “The last time I read a report of the area the place was clear.” The last time he had read a report of the area he’d been working side by side with Lorenz, thinking the worst that could happen was that Lorenz would catch him staring at the soft curve of his neck revealed by the fall of his hair. 

“Are you listening?” Leonie frowned. 

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. What?”

Judith looked up from her crouch on the packed earth of the edge of the forest. “I said that there are tracks. A horse was definitely here recently.” 

“All right.” He turned to Leonie. “I want two of your most silent soldiers up on the trees, ready with bows and arrows. We can’t have them getting cocky. The next time the scout comes close I want… What is that?”

“Something’s coming!” Judith hissed through her teeth, springing back from her position and in a fluid movement unsheathing her sword. 

Claude nocked an arrow and aimed at the place in front of them where the building sounds of snapping branches and trampled bushes came forward in a relentless approach, until the leaves started trembling in front of them. Claude stopped noticing the birds. He stopped noticing the wet scent of the dew-covered grass. 

Through the low-hanging branches emerged not scouts or wild bloodthirsty beasts. 

“Stop!” he shouted to the frozen forms of Judith and Leonie. “Get back, you’ll scare her away!” 

He jumped off his horse, Failnaught left behind tangled in the saddle. There in front of him, panting, flanks streaked with sweat and nostrils flaring for want of breath was Lorenz’s mare. He would have recognized the cream golden coat and the braided mane anywhere, so often had he seen Lorenz with her. But the saddle was hanging off her, carelessly dragged through mud. There was blood across her shoulder. A lot of blood, dry and flaking off her coat. She was rearing up, screaming and throwing her head side to side. She would dive back into the woods and be lost if she continued to panic. 

He tried to think how he’d soothed Barbarossa whenever something spooked her. She’d been a fearful little thing, a long time ago, but never had she been this afraid. 

Slowly, he rose his hands in front of him. He shushed her in a gentle tone and spoke whatever came to his lips, moving closer after her frantic attention had turned to him. He let easy, simple words speak of a calm he did not truly feel—had not felt since leaving Lorenz—and restrained any sudden movements that might send her back running. And it seemed to work, the cadence of his voice penetrating her frightened mind, the predictability of his actions lulling her into calmness. She kept backing away, but her exhaustion was catching up with her and she did not rear up and away anymore, her forelegs safely on the ground away from Claude’s delicate facial bones. Her eyes were still wild, following his every movement. “It’s ok,” he placated her, wrapping his voice in honey. “It’s alright. You’re safe. It’s alright, girl. That’s it. You’re fine. You know who I am right? I know who  _ you  _ are. Cashmere?” Her ears twitched. “Cash?” She neighed with feeling. “Ok, ok. Maybe Cashmere for now.” But he was already within reach of her reins. It took every ounce of self-control not to lunge for them but to calmly raise his hand and take them. He clutched them in his fist until his fingers hurt. She would not dart away now. She was safe. Whatever this was, a lead, a message, a signal, it was Lorenz’s. And it was within his reach, even if Lorenz was not. Yet. He had to believe in that, if nothing else. But why was she injured and alone and what had happened to Lorenz? 

It didn’t help, when he saw the broken arrow protruding from her shoulder. Even if it explained the blood, maybe not all of it was hers. That he had seen Lorenz's prowess atop a horse was the only thing keeping him from thinking he may have been ridden down, or fallen in the chase. Wherever he was, it was not lying in the dirt, or injured and alone and— 

He couldn’t think like that. 

Other than on breathing, he could focus on something that was within his current capabilities to fix. Claude tried to get a better look at the wound, but the mare shied away from him, nickering with the breath she had left. 

“Sssh. I know. I know. Someone will heal you right up.” She kept moving her head from side to side. Claude soothed her short coat down her neck like he’d seen Lorenz do so many times. “Judith?” he called, turning his head just to find her right by his side. “The mare belongs to Lorenz's," he explained. "You know anything about wounded horses?"

She gave him one of her flat looks, but at least bent her head to inspect the wound closer. “It looks like it has stopped bleeding.” 

“I’ll take it to the stables and see it gets taken care of,” Leonie offered. 

It wasn’t easy to let go of the reins, and not only because his fingers had cramped around the leather. He watched the slow, limping gait of Cashmere following Leonie, and when the sun behind them for a moment blinded him, Lorenz could have been the one leading her, his gentle voice soothing the mare like the murmur of the wind upon the leaves of the trees of the forest. 

But then he blinked the glare of the sun out of his eyes. He saw the saddle still dragging on the ground and called for Leonie to stop. No mending would save it now, so he cut the remaining tie that had managed to cling to Cashmere and handed the saddle to one of Leonie’s mercenaries for disposal. 

Something fell from one of the saddle’s pockets, to his feet. 

It was a soft bag, and when he bent to retrieve it and opened it, the bundle of papers inside lodged a knot in his throat. His eyes roamed over the pages. “No, no, no, no,” he blurted out with the shred of his voice he found he had left. 

It was all there. All that would incriminate Count Gloucester. His letters to Acheron detailing Godfrey’s assassination as well as Acheron’s confession about all that had transpired afterwards, the attempt at Claude’s life and to poison Lorenz’s wine, and the collaboration of the Agarthans, whose involvement in forbidden magics was widely known and condemned all throughout the Alliance. The report Holst had managed to scribble that frantic night, explaining what had happened at the border, too. 

It was all he needed to take Derdriu back and he wanted none of it. 

When Judith reached to take the papers from him he let her, hands limp with the shock. “I thought you’d hidden these. How did Lorenz find them?” Claude heard her wonder, astonished, but he could not answer her, mind swirling around the broken pieces of the flimsy plan he had clung to for the past days. There had been no time to waste before, but he had clutched close to his heart the hope that Lorenz would know how to handle his father and stay safe, that he would negotiate his well-being with what little leverage he had until reinforcements arrived. Now he didn’t know what he was up against, if Lorenz had stolen from under the Count’s nose the evidence he most desperately wanted to eliminate. Now, all he could clutch was, inside his fist, a small note, blank save for two words and painfully familiar handwriting. 

Forgive me _ ,  _ Lorenz had written. 

What’s important is that you know, always, what it is you’re letting go of, his mother had told him. 

Had Lorenz known? 

No wonder the Count was smirching Lorenz's name. 

Whatever else was happening, he couldn’t afford the time to wait for Cyril and the Almyran reinforcements anymore. He couldn’t even wait for Judith’s troops to arrive from Daphnel. There had been no backup plan in case the reinforcements failed. He hadn’t had the means for anything else, but, if what Lorenz had given him had taken indispensable time from him, it had also opened up a new path of possibilities in his mind. One that Judith would not like, but one she would be indispensable for. 

“I know that look,” she warned him before he could speak. 

“I will need your help.” 

She asked, reluctantly, “To do what?” 

“To hand me over to Count Gloucester.” 

—

He would need the rest of the major houses on board as well. Hilda could speak on Holst’s behalf, but Margrave Edmund had been in Derdriu when he left. All pointed to him still being there. Even if he could not count on his help, Ordelia, Daphnel and Goneril would have to be enough. 

Marianne and Hilda agreed to follow his plan and ride for Derdriu the next morning, following the open road with every mercenary as escort wearing the colour of their houses. The Count's soldiers would not attack them as long as Claude was not with them. They may not have enthusiastically agreed to the part that had Claude and Judith fending for themselves, crawling through the woods on their own to avoid his capture until the last possible moment, but they did so with much less reticence than Judith had shown. She had refused to attend the meeting, but she knew Claude would do it with or without her. 

Without her it would turn out worse. After all, he needed someone to deliver him, bow-wrapped, to Count Gloucester’s door and into the hands of the council and the nobles that would expect a trial and, at least, frown at--hopefully even protest--the lawless execution the Count would have preferred. 

They were leaving in hours, as soon as the sun rose, and instead of sleeping as he should be doing, he found his steps had carried him towards the stables. 

The doors opened to darkness, except for a lonely lantern in one of the stalls further inside. The whisper of a voice speaking in a soothing rhythm reached his ears as his boots fell softly over the straw-littered ground. 

He stopped outside the ring of light. 

“Marianne?” he called quietly, not wanting to startle her, and entered the stall. 

He wasn’t surprised to see which horse was the one inside, that Marianne had chosen to come accompany. “Claude,” she acknowledged, brushing her skirts as she rose from the ground. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I could ask you the same,” he smiled. At the sound of his voice, Cashmere’s head twitched upwards, swaying from side to side from her place lying on her side on the soft mat covering the stall. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his heart picking up speed at the sight of her heavy-lidded eyes. 

“She is fine, don’t worry,” Marianne assured, bending to offer a soothing caress to Cashmere’s neck. “I gave her a tonic for the pain, so she’s a bit woozy. But she healed nicely and by morning will be up and running.” 

“That’s good.” His voice was heavy with relief. 

“You came here to check on her?” 

It hadn’t been a conscious choice. He had let his feet wander, knowing he’d be too restless to sleep, but he supposed there was no other reason why he’d come to the stables at midnight. “I guess I should leave her to rest,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Cashmere was well taken care of, as Lorenz would have wanted. There was nothing else to…

“Why don’t you stay with us for a while? She seems to recognize your voice.” 

He hesitated for a second. Since leaving Derdriu he’d kept himself busy, never stopping. Planning, looking at maps, keeping watch on the battlements with Leonie, one thing after the other. In the stall, the heavy cadence of the mare’s breaths was calming. She barely reacted as Claude crouched to put a hand to the side of her muzzle. Here he could pretend that stopping still wasn’t terrifying, even as he felt that he wouldn’t remember how to go on as before if he did. 

“You know, I have a wyvern in Almyra,” he told Marianne, the words out of his mouth before he’d decided to say them. He didn’t look away from the slumbering horse, but noticed Marianne return to her sitting position, knees folded beneath her as she leaned against Cashmere’s flank. “I’ve had her for almost half my life. Every time I saw Lorenz riding I thought of the skies back home. Such a breathtaking sight, as the sun rises.” He brushed his hand down the side of Cashmere’s head, letting his fingers tangle in the sleekness of her mane. “I think a part of me is always stuck up there, just looking at how small it all is from above. How small," one stretch of land, an assemble of serene life, one lonely horizon; only the farthest shore to measure the distance, only the sea insurmountable, "and how peaceful." 

Marianne let the silence grow in the space between them. It was a thoughtful kind of quiet, comfortable in the dim light of the torch. She was looking somewhere far away as she answered. "I think I understand what you mean. Riding... Sometimes riding with Dorte feels like that, too. As if whatever may go wrong tomorrow can wait until I catch my breath." 

"Yeah, like that. The same feeling of looking up at the stars in the night sky." A sigh escaped him. "I never...” he went on, by some miracle keeping his voice steady. “I never told Lorenz about it.” 

“It’s not too late. We’ll be back at Derdriu soon. After everything is fixed, maybe…” Marianne was kind enough to let the words trail away. Not a question for Claude to answer, or a sentence built of certainties that Claude would have to pluck before they could take root inside him. Instead a dawdling cloud of hope diaphanous as the wind that carried it away. Even if they locked up Count Gloucester for good and recovered Derdriu—not everything would be fixed. 

“Right.” His eyes shifted to find hers. “You really do think we’ll manage to take Derdriu back.”

She offered him a soft smile. “We wouldn’t do this otherwise. Do you think Lorenz would ever forgive us if we let you risk yourself in vain?”

Gardener of secrets, Claude knew how to build a silence too, and so let an answering smile flit across his face instead of giving voice to a thousand doubts. Whether or not everything he'd done for the better part of a year would be in vain only the days to come would tell. 

—

The next morning poured over them humid and, once they were inside the forest, stifling. Judith failed to entertain any of his passing fancies, jaw clenched tight and a murderous frown crowning her brow, so in silence they rode on through the woods. The quiet may have been for the better, as his plan did not involve having any scouts who rode ahead to alert them of the danger that may be waiting hidden in the shadows. They needed as much stealth as possible.

Claude’s fingers itched with the urge to grip his bow and aim at every little sound, but all was clear; the sparrows sang in the trees above them and, under the cover of bushes, rabbits and lizards hurried out of the path of the two horses. 

Judith didn’t let him call the shots: they rested when she saw fit and stopped to water the horses when she deemed it necessary. He didn’t argue it. He could see what it took to do what she was doing. Her hands kept returning to the shackles hanging from her saddle as often as his mind kept going over the plan. 

They moved very, very slowly. It had taken them less than a day to flee the archers who ambushed them right after leaving Derdriu and find refuge in the Riegan keep, but now when night spilled its ink-dark sky over them, after a full day of painstakingly careful riding, the stars above them appeared through the intertwined branches of the oaks and pines all around them. 

“We’re making camp here,” Judith announced, and dismounted by a shallow cave without waiting for Claude’s agreement. 

He swallowed his protest—all he wanted was to push forward, forward no matter how unwisely—and started gathering wood. Within the shelter of the cave, they could make a small fire without being spotted. “I can take first watch,” he said, because he was too restless to fall asleep right away, too anxious with every way they could fail. He expected Judith to disagree just to be contrary, but after pursuing her lips she unrolled her sleeping bag by the poor fire and turned her back to him. He had resigned himself to the silent treatment when she said, “If you fall asleep, I’ll put the shackles on you far sooner than I need to.” 

His lips curled in relief. “I won’t,” he promised, trying to hide the small smile from his voice. 

It had been Nader who had taught him how to measure the passage of time in the night, what felt like a lifetime ago. Under that same sky, under those same stars. Things that remained the same no matter where he stood had had the power of calming him, back when he’d first left Almyra. As he fed more wood to the weak fire and forced some dry jerky down his throat, he realised the old trick failed him. This woods, this scent of life blooming around him, this quiet; all of it transported him back in time to a place where he didn’t know what lay beyond the border. He could not imagine returning to Almyra and becoming that person again. But someday he would; there would be no loose ties binding him to the Alliance. His bag was heavy with the documents that would give him a freedom he didn’t want. But he would cut himself loose if it meant giving back to Lorenz everything that he deserved. 

Not for the first time that day, his fingers closed around the hairpin in his pocket. He supposed it would come a day not even that he would have of Lorenz. And he was supposed to be looking forward to it, because it would mean his plan had worked and they were both alive to tell the tale. 

Taking first watch had been an awful idea. 

He was sick of jerky and even after all the wood they had gathered had run out the fire kept almost flickering out. Despite the season and the lack of wind, the night tasted of ice and teeth-clattering coldness. 

And his thoughts were doing him no good. He didn't know how to quieten the feeling of loss that kept pricking his chest--Lorenz had never been his to lose in the first place; his dream of the future as smoke between clouds. 

He was shivering by the time he realised no fire burned out that quickly. Not naturally, and not in spring. He did taste ice. By the time he was on his feet, Failnaught a familiar, comforting weight in his hands, his breath was misting the air and there was no trace of the heat of the dead fire. A thin layer of ice covered the glowing embers, the only light that was left. 

“Judith,” he whispered. “We have company.” 

The first arrow he set loose sank with a dry thud into the thick trunk of a tree. But he saw the shadow that jumped at the sound. 

The next arrow met flesh. 

Claude heard the groan of pain and had no time to feel relief. He hadn’t gotten the mage. 

The next wave of coldness conjured into the cave thrust violent shards of ice furiously swirling all around him. 

“Get behind me!” Judith roared. 

Shielding his eyes from the blizzard, he heard the lightning-quick rasp of steel against leather as Judith drew her sword. But before he could follow the sound, or even aim his bow again, strong arms were wrestling with him for his weapon. He cried out when it was wrenched from his grasp, something vital tearing in his fingers at the violent force of the pull. All he had time to wonder was whether this man was to be to him what the wild beast had been to Godfrey, and a broad hand was circling his neck and slamming him into the wall of the cave until everything stopped making sense. 

—

When he woke, that in itself was surprising. 

The next series of recollections went beyond surprise. His hands were free of restraints, for starters. And there was no pain in his body. He touched his head which, in the fog that were his memories of the attack, had been knocked into solid rock, and there was no blood, no bump in the bone. He looked down at his splayed fingers. They bore no bruises either, no sign of the harm he was sure he had felt, and heard, being done to them. But he had evidently lost consciousness, because he didn’t know how he’d gotten to this place, how he’d come to wake in this elegant room that only after close inspection betrayed itself as the inside of a very rich tent. Whoever it belonged to, they had set it with every attention to detail and mostly comfort in mind. It was wide and tall enough to allow standing, and the canvas thick enough to keep the cold morning breeze out, offering a semblance of warmth without the need of a fire. 

Judith was nowhere in sight. 

Neither was his pack with all the evidence against Count Gloucester. 

He was pushing away the blankets that had been mindfully laid over him on the cot when the sound of voices approached the entrance of the tent. Claude froze. 

“She was merciful, if you ask what I think,” a young woman was saying. “She should take all of your pay, not half, when she explicitly told us not to make a mess and you kinda went to town on him.”

“He shot an arrow through my chest!” came the hoarse answer. “A couple inches to the left and I’d be a goner! Was I supposed to let him shoot another one?” 

A thoughtful sound. “No. But did you have to use his head as a battering ram? I mean, what were you trying to crack, Balty, his head or the wall of the cave?  _ I  _ stopped the other one without any trouble.”

Claude found the knife inside his boot—had they even searched him?—and stayed to listen no more. The back of the tent was quiet, and the voices covered the sound of the canvas being cut open. He needed to find Judith and get the hell out of that camp. For once in his life, he would let all the uncertainties go and move on. He did not want to figure out who this person that had ordered his capture was or why she would care about not making a mess. 

On the other side of the tent, the sun of noon welcomed him. He bit back a curse. How long was he going to be delayed? But if time was not on his side, the size of the camp was. There were but three tents, other than the one he had just vacated. He would find Judith in one and be gone. 

With one quick glance around him he made sure nobody was around and bolted for the next tent. Inside, it was even more lavishly decorated than the one where he’d woken. This one had a thick rug stretched from corner to corner, and silk hangings looping down from the tall ceiling. There was a table by the bed. Judith wasn’t in there, but his pack was. His pack, with its contents spread on the table. He dashed further inside to retrieve everything and shoved it into the bag. In his hurry, he knocked aside the small glass figurine of a doe in mid-leap that had been on the table as well. The owner’s expensive taste in thick rugs saved it from shattering. Claude shouldered his pack and moved to exit the tent. 

And came face to face with a tall woman. 

Her thin, dark brows lifted in surprise, but she didn’t make a sound even as he raised his knife. “Inside, now,” he ordered. 

She complied with her head held high, a pursue of the lips the only indicative of her displeasure. At being held under knifepoint, or at being ordered around, none would have been able to say. The way the opulence of her heavy dress matched the lavish expenses of the tents and the haughty inspection, from head to toe, her eyes did of him without any subtlety, told Claude she was of noble birth. But there was something else that stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He was supposed to be asking where Judith was, but all he could do was take in the high cheekbones, the shape of the narrow eyelids and the colour of her eyes. The cowl—not Agarthan black but edged in latticed silk—hid most of her black hair but not the two loose coils framing the pale face. The lines that creased around her mouth when she curled her lips were the most noticeable sign of her age. 

“You have Tiana’s eyes,” she mentioned before, without any outward sign of worry about the knife, moving further inside the tent. 

He had seen the portraits. But then again, these were not foolproof. Who was able to guarantee the quality of the painting? But his eyes, he had always been able to trust his eyes. 

“It seems I chastised Balthus for nothing,” she said over her shoulder, her hand rising into an elegantly careless wave of the slender fingers. Something in the gesture, in her stretched lips, in her poise, that only under close inspection betrayed her discomfiture, was so familiar it took the breath from his lungs. “You look sturdier, standing up. But I suppose apologies should still be made for the unseemly way you were brought to me.” 

She didn’t say anything when she found the table empty and the pack safely strapped to Claude’s back. Merely, she bent down to recover the figurine, and held it on the palm of her hand to check for damage. 

Then, “I cannot tell if you know who I am or not,” she sighed. “Not surprising, of course. My son did mention in his letters you were a very irksome puzzle.”

The hand holding the knife lowered without any conscious input of his. For an awful moment, all the air in the room seemed sucked into his lungs until they were fit to bursting with it, almost painful. When it passed he found she had stepped closer and was peering into his face with a line between her brows. “You should sit down, perhaps. The healer mentioned you may need some more attention after you woke.” 

He ignored her. Passing out sounded even restful. “What do you want with me?” he demanded.

She drew back in surprise. “With you? Pray do not mistake my meaning. I cannot say I particularly care about you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Only insofar as you concern my son.” 

What he’d heard of her had made her seem like a mother who doted on Lorenz. Nothing had put him in mind of a woman who would hire mercenaries—or whatever the two that had attacked him and Judith were—to help her only son. But it shouldn't be surprising. This was the woman that had survived a marriage with Count Gloucester. 

“Why,” he tried again, “did you stop me, then?” 

Her lips folded into a stern line. “Lorenz is the talk of Derdriu at the moment. Do you have any idea what they are saying of my son?” 

The way her eyes resembled Lorenz’s was enough to edge the question from painful into unbearable. He said, “Yes. But it's Count Gloucester who is misconstructing everything. It is him you should send that beast of a man against—”

She bade him be silent with a gesture. “Though I agree, Balthus could show my husband a thing or two, that is not what we are discussing now.” She waved that thought aside. “How can you hope to fix anything when it is your presence in my son’s life that put him in that position?” 

It had been what Judith hadn’t said when he had told her the plan. He’d seen it in her eyes anyways. Hearing it aloud was worse, like a serrated edge run through all the places already bruised with the sharp words he had told himself again and again. “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears,” he bit out. 

Her nostrils flared, a blush of anger staining her cheeks. 

Claude went on. “You don’t. You have enough people to stop me, but not to stop your husband.”

“I don’t need to stop him. I can give Caesar what he wants,” and her eyes moved to the bag he carried, and, in the process, encompassed him whole, “in exchange of him clearing Lorenz’s name and letting him go.” 

He ignored her threat. 

“The day before yesterday, Lorenz’s horse came wounded through the woods, to Riegan keep.” He watched the blood leave her face. “It carried all of these.” He threw the bundle of papers on the table. “He did that, to stop his father. If I for a moment thought that exchange would be enough, that he’d be safe, I would give the documents to you. I would give myself over to you. But we both know that he won’t. That Count Gloucester won’t let him betray him like that.”

Her eyes had filled with tears. Of rage, of worry, maybe. He didn’t know. And he pressed on, ruthless—he had to get to Derdriu. “You read them. Did you get to the part where he tried to poison Lorenz to incriminate me?” 

A garbled gasp squeezed past her shut lips as her hand pressed against her breast. She sank on the chair behind her, and didn’t speak for a long time, but her rapid breathing filled the silence. Yet her voice didn’t waver when she demanded, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” 

“You don’t.”

The tears had run two clear tracks down her cheeks, but she turned eyes like daggers to him. He had allowed himself to imagine how it would be, if Lorenz ever introduced them. When he was done letting that future slip from his grasp, he kneeled in front of her and took her hands. 

“Whatever it is that you think of me, you don’t know me, but you know your husband, what he is capable of. If what I have planned works, Lorenz will be free of his father, and he will lead the Alliance for as long as he wants, with not a word said against him. And,” he added, finding one last truth that would be made reality when spoken out loud, but still it must, “I will be gone from his life for good.” He pushed what he’d been holding into her cold hands. “Please, let me go to him.” 

He held her eyes for as long as he could make himself, and at last rose before he could see her react to the hairpin, or the wavering edge in his words, or to the truth laid bare in his eyes, and had already put all the documents back inside his bag when she left the chair. “I was already on my way, too late to stop Caesar, but hoping I’d get to Lorenz before he did, when word reached.” She let her anger carry her voice. “The streets of Derdriu were buzzing with gossip: How the esteemed leader of the Alliance had let himself be deceived by an Almyran prince. It wasn’t only that he had married him, no—everybody knows how to see past arranged marriages. Goddess knows me and Caesar never fooled anyone. But the gossip went further: How the ruler had ridden ahead of his guard, forsaking his safety in his worry to reach the prince after he was attacked; how he had protected him from harm, inside his own rooms; how he had wanted to share their meals in front of all; how the prince had led him in a breathtaking dance to capture his heart, and, thus, convince him to give him everything, including the whole of the Alliance.” Her slender fingers touched his chin to make him meet her gaze again. Her voice had softened when she added, “Nobody is saying that the prince has given something of his, too.”

He couldn’t answer her without clearing the pressure from his throat. “Who’s to say he has?” He even managed a quiet, wanting laugh. 

In answer, she grabbed his hand and closed his fingers around the hairpin.

“I’m not letting you go,” she said, still holding his hand. “I’m going with you. What is your plan?” 

—

Having his head smashed against a cave wall and threatening his mother-in-law with a knife procured him with a carriage and a convenient coverup that would lead him straight through Derdriu’s gates, and the palace’s, without a second glance. 

(Most importantly, without the need of manacles.)

Judith, of course, liked that plan much better than his, which had included her becoming a sudden and inexplicable turncoat and escorting him shackled to the gates. Put like that, it truly did not show his cleverest side. Balthus seemed intent on hammering the point home. 

Like he had done with his head. 

“I’m just saying, nobody would have believed the Hero of Daphnel was changing sides,” he snorted. “Especially to side with a Gloucester—” 

“No offense, ma’am!” the other mercenary, Hapi, hurried to tell Countess Gloucester. 

Claude resisted the urge to close the carriage window and leave Balthus, who was driving it, speaking to himself. 

“Evangeline,” Judith cut in, “are you sure Caesar will not have ordered his soldiers to doubt you? What if he has the carriage searched?” 

“He won’t,” she assured. 

She seemed to think leaving it at that would suffice. 

“Because…?” Claude prompted. It earned him a narrowed gaze from the woman, as if she expected him to mind his manners even after pointing a knife at her. If everything worked out, and Lorenz ever heard of this—

No. Claude would be far away by then. And during the time he was to remain in Derdriu he would keep things impartial and impersonal. It was the only way to do what he’d promised Lorenz’s mother he would do. 

He had turned his gaze towards the thinning foliage outside the little carriage window by the time she spoke. “What has Lorenz told you of me?” 

“Not much.” He paused to consider. Then, something jolting in place, “That you are too ill to travel to Derdriu.” She looked hale and hearty right now. 

By the Countess’s side, Hapi’s face was a map of amused shock. The Countess curled her lips with an air of satisfied elegance. 

Or arrogance, if you were anybody else, really. 

But there was, swirling there deep in her eyes, sadness too. “Yes, that is what I have assured everybody else thinks too: too ill to be of much use, too ill to be any threat to whatever my husband plots.” 

“You lied to Lorenz?” he burst out, not crediting his ears. And immediately heat pervaded his face, when she returned the accusation in his tone with a moue that mirrored his consternation. 

“I did not lie, at first.” She spoke measuredly, making sure everyone in the carriage knew she told her story because she wished to, not because Claude had practically demanded it of her. “I did fall very incredibly ill, some years back. I could barely take a stroll around my gardens. With much research and help from endless healers and physicians, I slowly recovered some health—not all, I still struggle with long travels. But by the time I was better, Caesar did not come visit my residence anymore. I was not expected, either, to accompany him when he traveled on business. I was in no hurry for that to change. And then...

“Who did you think” she went on, “looked for and sent you the proof of my husband’s intrigues? What a competent little _ spy  _ that got their hands on the copied letters that allowed you to accuse Caesar as a conspirator during your first Roundtable. You did not think you were dealing with a precocious scullery maid, did you?” 

Judith snorted a laugh. He rounded on her, but was speechless still. The foreign estate continued for minutes that went on and on. 

“You’re the one who’s been writing to me all this time,” he realized out loud, in a thin, horrified voice. He had conspired with Lorenz’s mother to bring down his father. Wonderful. But he couldn’t join Judith’s hearty cackles, or the Countess’s refined mirth, with anything other than a half-hearted chuckle. There was one person he wanted to tell this to, and couldn’t, and never could probably, not how he wanted to. “Still,” he said after a pause, bullheadedly returning to their previous subject. “Why didn’t you tell Lorenz you were better?” 

What seeped into her voice next was what resembled that woman he had pictured. “That boy is too honest for his own good,” she said fondly. “I truly do not know who he gets it from.” But that wasn’t the whole reason. He held her gaze. Something in it made him regret the question. And he didn’t need her to tell him anymore, he knew why. It was there in the downturned corner of her mouth, in the way her eyelids softened when she looked at him, making him feel five years old and fifty at the same time. But she did, all the same, she did. After all, he had asked. “I didn’t want him to lie for me to his father. You and I know the toll it takes, do we not, to hide something for a very long time?” 

He had nothing to say to that. 

And, “We’re approaching the city gates,” came Balthus’s voice booming through the window. 

It was his last chance to get any fresh air. After they entered Derdriu he would be confined inside the carriage, hood over his head. He decided to join Balthus for the while it took them to get there, and made the appropriate polite excuses, catching the Countess’s twinkling eye as she smiled, like he’d known she’d do, at his propriety. 

As he opened the carriage door and effortlessly clambered towards the driver seat, he caught the start of her conversation with Judith. “He reminds me so much of Tiana at his age. I cannot say I was too shocked when word reached us that her son had turned out to be…” 

And then he had reached Balthus and their voices were carried away. Claude was grateful for the respite. He didn’t want to hear them talk about his mother and whether or not he resembled her. Because they were wrong. His mother had known what she wanted most, what she couldn’t live without, and she had chosen to leave everything behind for it. And, simple as that, he hadn’t. 

He hadn’t and it was too late now. 

He would regret it for the rest of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had refused to give Lorenz's dad a name bc 1)coming up with names is hard and 2)he does NOT deserve one in this fic but I gave in in the end... (julius caesar was pretty obnoxious right?) But! I did plan to give his mom a name and Evangeline is such a pretty name?? IT WAS MEANT TO BE. I have this headcanon that she was reluctant friends with Judith and Tiana as they were growing up in court... Anyway, hope it was not too weird for her too show up? I decided she would be the spy pretty early on but I admit the whole thing with her having poor Claude kidnapped was a more recent addition--sometimes your significant other's whole family is too quick to violence!! what can you do! but she DID tuck him in afterwards so
> 
>   
> Thanks so much for reading and for your comments, I really cherish them!! :)


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Some warnings for this chapter (there are some SPOILERS here!!!): 
> 
> \- Drugs. The first scene is Lorenz waking very confused because he was drugged and he is very weak after waking.  
> \- Slurs. C. Gloucester talks about Claude in terms such as savage and mongrel (Claude is not there).  
> \- Violence. C. Gloucester slaps Lorenz across the face. He has heavy rings and there is blood. There are some descriptions of the wound.
> 
> I think that it is, hope I'm not forgetting anything!  
> Hope you like the chapter :)

He was shaking. 

No. 

Someone was shaking him. 

His body did not resist, but his mind did, refusing to pull through from the soundness of sleep. 

“Lorenz! Lorenz!” The voice was frantic. 

He gave an attempt of an answer, but it came out as no more than a groan. With every step he took towards consciousness the uncomfortable sensation of wrongness pulsed clearer. A blunt throb that started in his head and sent painful waves all across his body. Nausea built up inside him. 

“Stop,” he gasped, “stop.” 

He did not feel any more sudden movements, now only fingers curled and digging around his arms. “Thank the Goddess!” Lysithea breathed. “What is wrong with you? What happened?” 

He tried to blink her shape into existence. Her eyes two clear ponds full of questions. Once the initial blurriness had passed, seeing the rest took no effort, with strong daylight streaming through the windows. What time was it? 

“It’s past noon,” Lysithea said, answering the question he hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “What is going on? Claude and Cyril left earlier than they were supposed to, and then your father was here out of nowhere and he gathered everyone in the courtyard to listen to the Minister of Justice read an indictment.” Her voice unsteadied. “Gloucester troops have set out to stop Claude’s battalion and bring him in.”

He managed, with Lysithea pulling his shoulders, to sit up against the headboard. “Tell me…” But everything was mercilessly spinning. When he raised his hands to push his disordered hair from his face they were trembling like an old man’s. 

“Lorenz?” he heard as if from far away. 

Black was beginning to eat up the corners of his vision. He didn’t know if it was part of whatever was wrong with him or the fear his heart had started to pulse into his veins. What had his father done to him? A polite greeting, there at Lorenz’s door, barring his way without an ounce of subtlety. And then darkness. Maybe a sudden shadow from behind him—a brief, unfruitful struggle—

He wiped at his mouth and nose with his sleeve. “Water,” he rasped past his swollen throat. 

His skin burned with the memory of the wet kerchief over his mouth and nose. Or with the residue he tried to scratch from his skin and his lips with the towel and water Lysithea hurriedly brought him. He even rinsed his mouth, as futile as the act may have been if he’d already inhaled the drug. 

Lysithea had understood without his saying anything. “How dare he come into your room and drug you—” 

“That is not the Minister, that is an Agarthan in disguise,” he cut in. “Tell me everything. They’re bringing him in on what claims?” 

“Then the Minister is—” she stammered, closed her eyes until her thoughts settled. “They are saying…” Lysithea hesitated. “They know who Claude is.” Then, in a rush a part of Lorenz wished to shield himself from, “Did he tell you? Because if he didn’t I  _ will  _ kill him myself. Oh, Lorenz tell me you know. You can’t find out like this. He wouldn’t want you to find out like this." Lorenz closed his eyes. "He wanted to protect you from your father but he will have done the opposite if he hasn't told you—”

“I know, Lysithea, I know.” He was too weary to pretend shock at Lysithea’s knowledge. He saw her breathe deeply, in relief. “What do you mean, protect me?”

“If you’d annulled the marriage, you would have been part of House Gloucester again. If your father accused you as his accomplice…”

There was so much he had failed to understand. So much he couldn’t get back anymore. “He thought—” He had to try again. “He thought I would annul the marriage?” 

Then, “Someone’s coming,” Lysithea whispered, eyes wide. Her head turned towards the door. 

Lorenz tried to rise from the bed. He would face his father standing, not heaped where he’d been left. Lysithea helped him when he staggered. The nearest bedpost was cold and solid, steadying when he braced one hand around it and breathed once, slowly. 

All too soon the door was opening. 

“Lady Ordelia!” his father greeted, cordial. “Such pleasure.” He smiled an oily sneer. “I was sure I had forbidden anyone to bother my son while he recovered.”

“Recovered—” Lysithea snarled. 

Lorenz put a hand on her shoulder and dragged her back. “She was leaving.” She turned betrayed eyes to him. “Go,” he gritted. The last thing he wanted was Lysithea within reach of his father, while he was too weak to even stand on his own. Lysithea’s tolerance for his father’s gloating would only stretch so far. And wherever the Agarthans were hiding was too near her already. 

"Go," he insisted, pushing her shoulder with a weak shove. 

"Yes, perhaps that is best," Count Gloucester agreed. 

“No!”

"You need to find out if they are all right. Please," he pleaded in a frantic whisper, “we need to know they are safe. Claude.” He added, “And Cyril. I will be fine, I have done this before.” 

At last she relented. The man that had entered on his father's heels fell back against the wall, broad shoulders relaxed. It had never been their choice. 

With a glance over her shoulder betraying her anxiety, Lysithea left. 

Lorenz had half a second to convince himself of this small victory. He surely had not sent her towards worse. 

“Sit, son.” Count Gloucester, in invitation, patted the back of the chair closer to him as he turned it away from the table Lorenz used for small gatherings and tea. “I fear your responsibilities may have overwhelmed you.”

"My responsibilities?" Lorenz scoffed, not budging an inch. His nails dug into the carved wood of the bedpost. 

“You have always been too high-strung. Why else would you collapse like this?” Again, he gestured for him to sit. And said, “Maybe Lady Ordelia will be more sensible if I go talk to her. A better host no doubt, you offer me not even refreshments.”

Lorenz clenched his jaw. Every step towards obeying that suggestion revolted his insides, but it would have been rash to claim that was the act of complying with his father’s demand and not the drug in his blood. Count Gloucester would drag this out, maybe complying and sitting was not such a bad idea.

“Where is Claude?” 

“Do you listen to yourself!” After Lorenz did not offer him the chair opposite, he inspected it and rigidly sat anyway. Lorenz received the gaze of eyes clouded with such unctuous pity, as cloying and thick as to stick to everything it touched. “The first thing out of your lips is the name of the scoundrel who has betrayed your trust and lied to you since the beginning. Are you not ashamed?”

“Ashamed? You have  _ drugged  _ me.” 

“You forced me to, in your weakness.” His father was sorrowfully shaking his head. “The moment I had to leave Derdriu months ago I knew the situation would overcome you.”

“I am,” Lorenz hissed, “the leader of Leicester. Not—”

The glass pitcher of water he kept on the table crashed into tiny pieces on the floor. His father lowered his hand very slowly to rest on the table. “You  _ are  _ where I put you. Or do you think you got there on your own?” How had he never realized before how easily his father’s temper could jolt? He so enjoyed the sound of his voice in the trembling stillness after a sudden noise silenced whoever dared talk back at him. “You owe everything to me. Your education, your standing, your name. Your life.” 

“I would give it all back to you if I could,” Lorenz snapped. Still threaded with the heavy drug-induced weakness, his voice was a poor match to his father's. He did not yell, but spoke without hesitating. It was too late to do anything else. “I do not want anything to do with a murderer. You killed Godfrey. And you tried to kill Claude—”

“Ah! Him, again? You have been inveigled, like a maiden her first year at court, swallowing whatever he tells you!” Count Gloucester rose, chair scratching the floor, to tower over Lorenz as he said, “Did he say you were better than your name? That he saw the honour in you, the nobility? Sweet words whispered to your ear so you would turn your back on me.” Lorenz’s head swam in a current too violent to offer a ledge. He had wondered these same things when he had first met Claude, warned himself against listening to whatever Claude’s clever tongue spoke. That he had doubted him in such a way and took so long to realize the kind of man he was was something he'd never forgive himself for. Whatever showed in his face, his father misunderstood it as acknowledgment, instead of the disgust it was that his own thoughts had once so resembled these baseless accusations. “Did he wait until after he’d bedded you to tell you you owed no loyalty to your House? That he was a much better recipient of your hapless trust?” Lorenz felt the words hit his face like a blow, the back of the chair digging in his back through the numbness as if he’d physically reeled back. He may have. He would not have expected his father to continue. “I suppose I should be thankful neither of you possesses the necessary attributes or a mongrel whelp would be about to start crawling over the rugs. Do not think that would have stopped me from trying to orphan them today.”

Anger burned the coldness in his face. But he could not yell, and did not know if he could successfully rise from the chair. The drug ran through him like mud pushing all clear thought from his mind. He breathed until his fists unclenched from their weak grip on the table. “Trying?” he asked, and heard a fraction of strength returned to his voice with the possibility. “So he is alive?”

“You are grasping at straws, how embarrassing,” the Count sneered. "If you find comfort in the fact that his body was not left behind in quick death, you are a naive fool. As we speak, he may be choking in his own blood with an arrow in his lung, or sitting in his own filth with an arrow in his gut.”

His drugged slumber had been dreamless, a peace he had not felt in a long time, and a part of him was grateful that the nightmares had not plagued his mind in waking, so he could focus on pushing past the grasp of the drug. But he would have taken any of the shapeless nightmares he was used to over this. The images his father evoked now made him turn his head away from him. 

But Claude was not dead. 

“I may be naive. But he is not.”  _ And he is alive. He has to be. “ _ And you cannot outsmart him. Especially not now he expects it. If you surrender gracefully, House Gloucester—”

“Our house was doomed the moment you left your mother’s womb. If you were about to talk of legacy, save it. You have done nothing to earn our legacy. If you want a part of it, you will start collaborating now. You will, first, sign the petition for the marriage annulment, and detail all he did to conceal his identity from you, from the nation he swore to protect, and from the Goddess. Then everyone will be spitting at the mention of that savage’s name, realizing how he claimed to ride to stop a war while it was his blood that ordered it in the first place. And when his clutch is no longer sullying the Alliance, you will cede power over to me.” Count Gloucester scoffed. “Or do you expect them to be led by someone who laid with the enemy?”

He would not answer to his father’s disrespectful taunts, but whatever he saw in Lorenz's face prompted him to shake his head with a hiss of amusement. “Do you think me blind, deaf, witless? I may have been at Gloucester, but my eyes and ears have remained here. Do you know the disgusting reports I received after New Year? He dazzled you with that horrid dance.” He added, compassionate, “Afterwards, all my plans were for you, son. I acted in a rush to save you. From him and his lies. And what did you do? You soothed his well-deserved wounds in your rooms. In your bed. I suppose weakness beckons weakness.”

“He is not weak.”

“Speak up! I cannot—”

“I said he is  _ not  _ weak.” Lorenz found he could, after all, stand. The room was taking turns about him as he did, but he said, “You may have uncovered his identity to all but proof you have none. And the criminals you are harboring will cause  _ your  _ ruin as much as you are trying to cause his. I will not sign anything, I will not give you anything. You are to stop this complot at once. I tried to resolve this civilly and you leave me no choice. Guards!” 

And when the two at his door had entered: “Arrest Count Gloucester.” He looked into his father’s eyes as he said so. For a long time. The lack of response and movement in the room whistled over his head like the axe of the executioner. So Lorenz could watch the exquisite pleasure he took from his demonstration, his father held his gaze as he ordered them to leave, and as they, trusted Gloucester guards who had been at Derdriu for months, obeyed him. 

Softly: “See? You are all alone.” He stepped forward to clasp Lorenz’s shoulders. “You were so caught up with him you didn't notice your men were not yours. You have failed, at everything, since birth. That you’d dare to arrest your father! I am done trying to make of you what you are not.” 

Lorenz jerked away from him. “You are right. I am not a killer, and I will not stand by one. I am not sorry about that. Only about taking so long to see your true colours. Claude is twice the man you have ever been.” For all the boldness in his words, he imagined no solution would come to him now. He had never won an argument with his father, in his life. Why should it start now when it mattered? But if all he could manage was to protect the one person who had uncovered his eyes, who had thrust open the windows of his stuffy life and made him  _ see _ , not only what the world had to offer but what it could, with effort and understanding, be molded into, he would consider himself satisfied. Lorenz said, one hand over the back of the chair for support, “We made sure you couldn't do this. You cannot stop the word from spreading. All the things you did, all your thwarted plans and your frustrated ambitions and the actions you took, the people you hired to kill for you, and poison for you, and reach into the order of a well-established kingdom and scramble its entrails for your pleasure.”

For the first time, doubt crossed his father’s face. “What.”

“We have Acheron’s letters,  _ father.” _

“That fool— It can’t be—”

“Oh, it can. He didn’t burn them as you did. We have copies. You cannot find all of them. If anything,” he said slowly, “happens to Claude, I guarantee you, not one soul in the Alliance will be left who does not get their hands on one of those copies. Or Acheron’s confession. Or Holst’s report about the suspicious group of Gloucester soldiers who were sent to destroy the Almyran villages and start a war. If you think you can lead Almyra’s neighbor nation after what you did to those innocent villagers, you are sorely mistaken. If you think the people here will follow a murderer—” 

It had not been doubt in his father’s face; it had been fear. And this was how he reacted to it: he was not quite as tall as Lorenz, his strength that of a man past his prime where Lorenz was young and took pleasure in physical activities, but in Lorenz’s weakened state, the slap sent him stumbling against the vanity, a shower of vials shattering against the floor around his feet, swept away by his hand scrambling for purchase. 

The first useless thought was that his father had never hit him before. 

The second that even through the haze of the drug, it was painful. More than it should have been. When he touched his cheek and looked at his fingers, they came away red. Lorenz didn’t know to make sense of it until he saw the hand his father opened and closed in an annoyed gesture, the heavy rings that curled around each of his fingers. 

His words, at least, had lost most of their biting edge. “You are alone, Lorenz. Without a Riegan husband at your side nobody will believe you innocent of my doings. I have a servant that witnessed your visit the day I burned the letters! You are going down with me. And your mother, too.” He came closer, but refrained from forcing Lorenz to turn to him. As things were, even he must have realized what a terrible idea that would be. The room kept spinning, even with a hand spread on top of the dresser to support the weight of his upright position. 

From a respectable distance, in case Lorenz dared collapse on top of him, Count Gloucester demanded, “Wipe that smile from your mouth.” 

Lorenz hadn’t realized he’d been smiling. “All of House Gloucester destroyed. Because of you. Years of history. Dragged to the gutter. All of this conspiracy and corruption and needless want of power and innocent blood you spilled.” It was funny, really. Lorenz made himself look down to meet his father’s eyes: “And you think they will care that I laid with the Prince of Almyra?” On the vanity, one small box had survived the avalanche. He closed his hand around it as he spoke, because he wanted his father to have no doubt as to where his alliances laid and because his crass words had shocked Lorenz enough for one morning and it was time to turn it around. “I would,” said Lorenz, “do it all again.” 

Count Gloucester staggered back. “Shameless as to admit it to my face!” But he was pale. “To him you're no better than one of those dancing girls those savages use for entertainment.” And an old man who had already done all the transgressions and hurt he could. There was nothing left for him to ruin, it would end with Lorenz’s life. Count Gloucester said, “He left you here, after all. Instead of riding back for you, he left you here for me to deal with as I see fit.” The little box embroidered in velvet dug sharp edges into Lorenz’s palm. “Maybe he is smarter than I gave him credit for. Maybe he thought it inevitable that you’d come crawling back to me, and gave up on you like all of those ladies that once considered your fumbling advances until you embarrassed yourself.

“Do not get comfortable, son. If I find there is any truth to these threats of yours, you will rot alone in a cell until I bring you that liar’s head for company.” And to the guards outside, “Handcuff him. I want two soldiers at his door at all times. And search the room.”

—

—

Claude had told her, after the assassination attempt, to go back to Ordelia territory. In a mocking tone, to leave adults to their business. Last night, he had not even deigned to say goodbye. 

She was doing this because there was no place or time where not acting in such a situation became a possibility. She was doing this because Lorenz was her friend. She was doing this because, if she was successful, Claude would need to eat his words. 

(It was easier to think like that than to think about how long Lorenz had taken to wake up, no matter how loudly she called his name or how hard she shook him. Or about what had transpired with his father in her absence.)

To say it all rode on her shoulders may have overstated it a little. After all, she had found the knight Kirsten, who always insisted everybody please call him Raphael, and Ignatz the court painter in a hissing debate in the library after the sun fell. One could say the two of them may—may—have successfully procured a horse for Lorenz to leave on, and some clothes that might have allowed him to become inconspicuous. There was no way they would have ever been allowed inside his room to, “Bring him some food from the kitchens." She widened her eyes. "Please. He needs to eat something." Her voice cracked on cue. "He has a weak constitution. Please, good sir.” 

Guards did not like it when young ladies threatened to spill big, fat tears. She kicked the door shut behind her, already her dry eyes roaming over the mess in the room that hadn't been there when she left hours before. Without any aim towards preservation coffers had been upturned, scarves scattered across the floor, delicate silks ripped and unsalvageable. The wardrobe stood gaping, doors ajar to expose the scrambled insides and the clothes torn from the hangers. How many times had Lorenz invited her to his sitting rooms and served steaming tea from that teapot now lying in pieces in one corner of the room? The sight would have been enough to draw her to a stop and see if any teacups had managed to remain whole. 

If there hadn't been a more heart-stopping one.

Lorenz sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving. His shoulders sloping as if the weight of the world rested above them. He hadn’t even turned around at her entrance. 

Her heart gave one painful shudder in her chest. “Lorenz?” 

It was luck that, when he turned his head to look at her, she had already left the tray on the table so she did not worsen the mess in the room by dropping it. 

“What happened?” she asked, barely able to hear herself. 

She bridged the gap between them until the lamplight she carried with her fell upon his face. There was the red tearing his cheek, bright under the light; blood had dripped downwards but now had stopped. Around the raw skin, slashed against the cusp of his cheekbone, purple had already bloomed; after some days it would be yellow, while the skin would struggle to grow and heal. As heartwrenching as it was, seeing him hurt, it was not as bad as it had looked from a distance—he had not staunched the flow of blood and instead let it drip and then smear across half of his face, his collar stained too. The wound itself was a series of deep but small lacerations, scraped right under his eye. She breathed easier, pushing away the thought of what would have happened if the blow had fallen a couple of inches higher. 

“I am fine, do not look so upset.” 

They looked at each other. “Did the guards do this?” Lysithea asked as she lifted a hand to heal him. 

“No,” he said, looking away, after she was done. His wrist clattered when he moved his hand to touch his newly-healed face. She saw, speechless, the manacle around his wrist, tying him to the headboard. Looking at it, too, as the chain drew short and stopped his hand in its path, Lorenz frowned.

“I shouldn’t have listened to you,” she said, reaching to take his bound hand. “I should have stayed.” 

“I remain glad that you listened. It was not a confrontation worthy of an audience.” His attempt to chuckle cracked in the middle. Any effort towards levity would have failed with eyes so red and swollen. 

“Let me clean you up," she said softly. "II will bring you up to date as I do so.”

He did not protest it. The pitcher of water she’d brought him to drink would have to do, along with a basin that had been knocked to the floor but not broken and a clean towel he directed her to find inside his dresser. 

“What happened to your room?” 

A grimace, when she pressed the wet towel to his face. She’d done the best she could, but the sore bruising would remain for some days, even if the worst of it—the visible kind of worst—she had taken away. “My father,” Lorenz said, “thought I may be hiding Acheron’s letters here. The ones that so awfully incriminate him.” 

“Are you?” 

“Am I.” His lips were white. “Claude was the one who stored them someplace safe. I think perhaps I could...” he trailed off. That was all he brought himself to offer. When she took away the towel, his mouth continued pressed into an arduous line. 

He didn’t seem to notice she had already finished. She put the basin away, cleaned her hands, and still his eyes were somewhere far away. 

“Your father called off the order.” 

His half-lidded eyes widened, pushing away the lines of exhaustion that wrinkled his brow. “What order?” The chain tethering him in place rattled again, as if he’d made some unconscious movement forward in his anxiety for knowledge. 

“I heard your father’s soldiers speaking," she explained. "After he left your room he changed his mind, and now they have to take Claude in alive.” They hadn’t been happy about it. Lorenz didn’t need to know how they had boasted about killing the Almyran usurper’s mercenaries. She swallowed the bitter taste of that recollection. “I heard they gave chase as far as Riegan territory.”

“They must have taken refuge at the keep!” He whispered, eyes wide, “That’s less than a day’s ride.”

"We can leave under the cover of night," Lysithea nodded. 

Lorenz did not react as she expected. Some silent argument flashed behind his eyes before he closed them and took a bracing breath. He made his decision. “I cannot let my father take Derdriu.”

"He's already done so,” she pointed out. There was no time for tact. “He's locked you here. He's told everyone—"

"What?” Even further he had paled. He demanded, carefuly, as if a part of him didn’t want to know, “Told everyone what, Lysithea?" 

If the painful truth was what it took for Lorenz to stop being stubborn and run away, she would tell him. She looked at her hands as she spoke. "That you've been compromised. That you do not believe the Minister's claims and are willfully blind to Claude’s identity and a danger to Leicester’s future and stability.” She added, lifting her gaze, “I’m sorry, Lorenz.” 

“I see,” he murmured, folding his lips into a tense line that repressed fury and pain and most of all, lacked any shock. 

“Most don’t believe him,” she hurried to say. “Most would back you up if you managed to reach them. Already some are asking for a private audience with you. The council members would support you, Lorenz, maybe if…” As reality unfurled inside her mind, her voice trailed off. For years she had understood soulless schemes were part of politics. Never had it disgusted her as much as now. 

Lorenz too understood. Had always understood. “If I denounced Claude as well, of course. It is what they have wanted since Claude arrived with all his new ideas and proposals and penchant for changing the old ways.” His mouth curled in a bitter smile. “How fortunate I am; one speech to the right ears will not only put my father behind bars but also give me full command of the Alliance. What is the price? One husband? Oh how Duke Riegan would hate it.” 

He was never callous. Sometimes aristocratically untactful, yes. If she hadn’t known him any better she would have believed the carelessness in his words. But all one had to do was look at him and see the fear in his eyes; above it the determination belying his words. 

The garden fountain had been littered with three bodies and the reek of blood pungent in the air. Cyril’s blood dry in her hands, Claude’s smeared all over Lorenz where he was trying to keep him standing; the only one by Claude’s side that night. 

That same determination she had seen then, too. She thought she had glimpsed something deeper but been unsure. She wasn’t any longer. 

Any would have called Lorenz devoted to his work. Devoted to bettering his House’s position and standing at court. Reaching his goals and leading the majestic Alliance in a manner befitting a noble such as he. 

It was unfair that devotion took many forms. 

“I’m sorry,” she heard her voice trembling. “If I had done more research, if I had found a spell to use the clothes of the Argathan to find them, maybe…” Tears spilled unbidden and warm down her cheeks. She wiped at them furiously, but it was too late. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Lysithea!” Lorenz stared aghast. “Please, do not feel guilty.” But she did. She had thought him so foolish for the way he hid from his feelings for Claude when for her Cyril had been a source of joy and warmth simply found and easily kept. But for Lorenz it had never been simple. For Lorenz it now meant speaking against the man he loved or sacrificing the position he had fought so hard for, all of his life. Softer than hers, his fingers brushed her tears away. “You have been such a great friend and help to me. To Claude, too, I would say. Only my father is to blame. My father and those vile creatures—” He froze. 

“What is it?” she sniffed. 

“The clothes. You mean the ones we found by the river. Of the servant who tried to poison me. Do you still have them?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “But you said you couldn’t leave Dedriu.” 

“And I cannot. But I need to find the documents inculpating my father. I have to do something—”

“No,” Lysithea cut in. “I’m not bringing you the clothes so that you can needlessly endanger yourself and then stay to receive your father’s punishment. I won’t.”

“Lysithea! This is more important than—”

“Your life?” she hissed. “No. I’m going, tonight. Are you coming?” 

“You cannot risk capture!” Lorenz spluttered. 

“Are you,” Lysithea repeated, slowly, “coming? You can fight your father when you’re back with Claude, with soldiers at your disposal. Won’t that be easier?” 

“Claude is riding for the border. The threat of war is more important than—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “The threat of war is more important.” 

“You think he will leave you here? He cares—”

Lorenz winced. “Don’t. It’s not that simple.”

He didn't meet her eyes. 

“Because he’s the prince?” she tentatively asked. 

His gaze fell to a box in his lap she hadn't noticed before. He tore his eyes away from it with some effort. In a thick voice, Lorenz said, “Because he doesn’t trust easily and he trusted me.” He inhaled one intake of air. Of the kind that was deep and stretched one’s lungs until it hurt with the pressure. “He trusted me, and I failed him. I did not listen, I pushed him away as he'd expected—” He shook his head. “We are wasting time. Do you think you can bring me the clothes?” 

“You’re coming with me, then? Even if he's gone, we can find shelter at the keep as well.” 

He just stared at her. At last, after a world-weary sigh: “Fine, but I need to check something first. Do you think I will be able to reach the library without any incidents?”

—

—

Lysithea would come once the clock struck midnight. She’d told him to be ready and waiting for her, and Lorenz had already melted the iron shackle from his wrist—he couldn’t tell if his father had forgotten about his magic prowess or had simply wanted one more humiliation done to him; he didn’t care—and he had dressed himself in dark garments. By the time Lysithea arrived all he’d have to do would be don the livery jacket she’d bring him that would, hopefully, allow him to pass himself as a servant and reach the library. He had racked his mind trying to figure it out, and it was the most likely place Claude would use to hide vital information. There had been a fire, not that long ago, in his chamber; that ruled it out. More than anything, Claude had spent an inordinate amount of time in the library. It was a wild gamble, but Lorenz would take it. 

He had never asked Claude where he kept the evidence against Count Gloucester. At times, he’d thought Claude may have not trusted as much as Lorenz hoped; at times, Lorenz hadn’t trusted himself enough to even wish to possess that knowledge. But he'd gained something from the confrontation with his father. Now he knew that he could stand strong against him and not give ground. Whatever happened now, nobody would take that away from him. He wouldn’t forget it. If he did, all he had to do was look in the mirror; even if the bruise, still sore, would fade in time, Lysithea's magic had been unable to erase the faint, pale scar. 

One thing was yet to be done. 

He hadn’t taken anything from his room. There was no point. If he took anything he may have wished not to lose—such as his mother’s amethyst hairpins—he would be admitting the possibility of failure, of never returning to the palace and stopping his father. He couldn’t afford that. 

But he couldn’t bear to part from the last thing Claude had given him either. It was so foolish. He was about to try to steal what his father most desperately wanted and make a run for it and he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the little box in his hands. He hadn’t even opened it. If he wanted to carry it out of the palace with him, he knew the safest way would be to wear whatever jewelry was inside and be done with it. A frantic chase would surely follow, Lorenz would already be hard-pressed to keep a hold on the documents he hoped to find in the library. Losing Claude’s gift in the woods, letting it fall out of his pocket, was something he was not going to risk. 

Dark blue velvet rimmed in gold; Lorenz pressed this thumb over the latch. One little push was all it would take. His nail dug beneath the lip of the lid. 

Where was he? Was he safe? His father had discovered Claude’s secret at the same time Lorenz had. Either his spies had been shadowing Duke Riegan, or Lorenz himself. They hadn’t parted on good terms, but surely Claude would not have thought Lorenz would willingly allow his father to send men after him. Surely he knew what he meant to Lorenz. 

Except he hadn’t told him. He kept hearing Claude’s overwrought voice. The way he’d blurted out, as the mask slipped again, that he had never planned to fall in love with Lorenz. And all Lorenz had given him back had been doubts. 

He put one hand over the box to hold in the cradle of his hands. Even when he chastised himself for his lack of focus, he had nothing to do until Lysithea arrived. She’d told him she had already found a way to deal with the guards stationed at his door. 

Claude was going to give him whatever was in the box. He would have, if Lorenz hadn’t ruined everything. If he’d tried to listen to him despite the hurt in his breast. If he ever saw Claude again, he’d ask his forgiveness. He held the box against his chest and, in silence, counted to ten. 

He had opened it before reaching the count of four. 

The light caught, held as if in liquid form, on the golden earring that lay inside, when Lorenz lifted it in front of his eyes; the glare of the candles dripped down the tear-shaped earring—wax down a taper, a wonder almost, that it did not melt between Lorenz’s fingers. 

It was beautiful. Not only because of the person who had given it to him. The simple shape served to heighten the mastery of the craftsmanship, surface as smooth as a lake's. If a lake ever mastered the skill of reflecting the golden sun and not the distant sky. 

One side of it was not smooth. His fingers traced the fine, calamus-thin carvings. Three tiny symbols that adorned the side which, once the earring dangled from one’s ear, would turn to press against the skin of the neck. Hidden, private. 

Without Claude there the Almyran letters were indecipherable. Without his words the gesture unexplained. What Lorenz wouldn’t have given for him to be there with him under completely different circumstances—yet another late night in the council room after a shared dinner, tired but not exhausted, together. Ever since he'd married Claude and come to Derdriu, he couldn't remember one moment in which he'd been lonely. Claude had always been there, his presence in Lorenz's life as unavoidable as the moon. Not always visible, not always whole, never fully known, but as constant as the sea. 

He could not bear to look at the earring for long. Neither could he bring himself to put it away. How to part from the only reminder of the relationship they had once shared, as a dish may be shared during lunch, as a life for a little while. The solid gold, losing the edge of inorganic cold as Lorenz held it in his hand, the only proof of what had temporarily bloomed, warmed the space between them until the time for withering. 

He couldn't believe that this would be the last thing he'd have of Claude's. Gladly he would give it back if the exchange was the rest of his days spent by Claude's side. That smile at breakfast. One more goodnight in a mellow voice. 

So much already was beyond their choosing—Lorenz could at least choose this, what to keep close, try to fix. If the flower withers in midwinter, not the whole bush dies, the roots continue to live and salvage what they can. 

His duty kept him chained to the Alliance, as Claude's duty kept him tethered to his crown. Lorenz's heart was learning a new tune; duty was not everything there was. 

His father’s men had not done any irreparable damage to the mirror, at least. Lorenz walked over the clothes strewn across the floor and stood opposite it. Claude could not have possibly known about that fashion two, three years ago which had had every young son of nobility who prided himself on caring for the latest style wearing an earring. Or how it had led Lorenz to let Hilda puncture his earlobe. It had, as all things to do with fashion, passed, but Lorenz sometimes took out his old jewelry and so, the earhole was not closed. 

He had to tuck his hair behind his ear in order to see how the earring looked. 

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t his father's son, ambitious for a new position but divested of anything else; not the man who got married both for power and to stop a civil war, only to allow the power to be stolen and the war to threaten his country all the same. 

Powerlessness for him had never had any distinctive shape, the weight of expectations something he'd taken as his own ambition. But he'd been powerless to stop Claude from leaving, to offer him a sliver of hope to take with him on his journey. Those had been the overpowering knots of powerlessness keeping him in place, and whatever his father hoped to make him feel paled in comparison. The evidence was leaving the palace that night, Lorenz would find it. 

He would welcome with open arms whatever came after. 

When the door opened he was readier than he would ever be. 

The library wasn’t one of the places that had seen them together for hours on end. Not like the council room or the audience chamber or the dining hall. That did not mean Lorenz's eyes didn't roam the width of the room, searching for any last trace of Claude they could find—the pile of books scattered on the table, the golden pen Lorenz remembered him saying he'd misplaced, a half-written draft he hadn't bothered to dispose of because of its complete ineligibility. 

Claude had enjoyed working in the calm comfort of the library. For all the airs Claude put on, all that practiced unrestraint and charming conversation he gave left and right, it had been this quiet place, where he could have privacy for himself and his thoughts, the one that had called to him. In every place he looked, he saw him. Him and his endless pursuit of bewildering books. 

The evidence had to be here. A needle in a haystack—one sheath of documents among the infinite papers that occupied a library. And if Lorenz had the faintest hope of finding it, it was because Claude hadn’t managed to keep the careful distance Lorenz had so resented in him during the first weeks of their marriage, not realizing he had been doing the same thing. Lorenz had learned, had he not? How he preferred his morning coffee, how frustration twisted the corners of his mouth and amusement wrinkled his eyes. How his lips parted to welcome Lorenz's. 

“I’ll look at these shelves over here,” Lysithea said in a soft voice. “See if anything he might have said comes to mind.”

Lorenz realized he’d been standing by the table, gaze lost in the last report Claude had been working on. “Very well." He cleared his throat. "I will call to you if I find anything. I know we do not have much time.” He took the golden pen in his fingers as Lysithea disappeared behind a shelf. 

It was this he used to hurriedly scrawl two words in a discarded square of parchment. 

In case that next they met the doubts returned, or the words did not come, so Claude would still know that even when the worst had arrived, what Duke Riegan threatened come to pass—if not by, ironically, his hand but that of his enemy—Lorenz was the one to have misstepped the last time they'd spoken. He had made a mistake in giving up, letting fear, and grief for all that the old duke’s threats had taken from them, overwhelm him. 

Forgive me, he wrote, and turned his gaze towards the endless rows of books. Put one foot in front of the other.

He’d told Claude there was no way for them. And though that may be the case after all, to accept it as readily as Lorenz had, almost inviting it into their lives, was the most craven thing he could have done. And so selfishly done, when Claude was the one giving him now strength and resolve. 

It wasn’t the first time it happened. Claude’s presence in his life had wrecked his foundations but had also given him a new sense of stability that was strong enough to survive what his father had thrown at them, while juggling the demands of petty nobility. 

He looked at the shelf in front of him. 

Claude had always referred to one specific occasion as their big shared success. He’d joked about it, from time to time, if a councilor mentioned Edmund in passing, his eyes holding that private, bright edge in them whenever he couldn’t give voice to his thoughts, and Lorenz had spared one glance his way and refrained from rolling his eyes, but there’d been that flutter in his chest, one only Claude had ever become an expert in enticing. 

Along with a splatter of confusion. 

One late night after they’d been left alone Lorenz had asked him. “You keep saying we. But I did not do much,” was what he’d said. Claude’s answer: “I would never have known something was amiss with Edmund’s report if not for you.” 

Teamwork, he'd called it. 

He looked at the shelf in front of him. 

And swept the first row of books off it. As they cascaded downward flashes of conversations came to him. 

_ Eye to eye,  _ as the second row of books came down, and still no sign of the book he was looking for.  _ That’s my favourite part,  _ and a clink of cups at breakfast as the third did, ignoring the heavy weight of the books hitting his legs as they fell. Dust made him cough and smarted his eyes, but he kept going until every row of the shelf in front of him was empty, until every book about tomatoes, cereal, olives, figs, and the properties of soil was by his feet. 

The shelf was empty. The shelf was empty and there was no sign of the book that Lorenz had picked up from the floor so long ago, crispy new in his hands because none of the feckless nobles that pullulated around the palace cared one wit for farming. 

He closed his eyes in failure. 

And then he opened them. There was a panel, at the back of the shelf, that reflected the light with undertones of caramel, not the darker color of the rest of the wood of the shelf. The books had hidden it, and he’d almost missed it, not being eye level to it. It was on a lower row of the shelf, one that Claude would have, perhaps, more easily reached. 

Or it may have been a mistake in the furnishing. 

Lorenz touched it, without daring to catch his breath slid it open, disbelieving. There was a false bottom built into the shelf. Not expertly but recently; a mess of splintered edges and sawdust in the small space inside. 

The corridor, dimly lit in the middle of the night.  _ You can never know too much about maize.  _

Knowledge. What he hadn’t known about Claude had once made him despise him in distrust, what he now knew made him love him. The unknown that was left changed nothing. 

The book, bound in leather with an olive green luster, was bulkier than he remembered, its spine bent, shiny title almost faded. He could imagine Claude showing it to him, the expectant smile at the reaction he hoped to get out of Lorenz. He put it inside the bag and held it close to his chest. The weight of it, of the book and the documents inside, a tempering lifeline. Suddenly all he’d done seemed almost effortless, if this was the prize. “This is it,” he said, only Lysithea there to hear the way his voice thickened. “Shall we?” 

Ignatz and Raphael were waiting for them in the stables. It had taken them so long, to avoid this and that patrol and patiently wait until this and that corridor emptied, Lorenz knew lesser men would have been gone by the time he and Lysithea arrived. 

“Words cannot express what it means to have your help tonight,” Lorenz told them. “If we are successful you may be assured that I will repay your loyalty appropriately.” 

“Please, it’s the least we could do,” Ignatz said. “You’ve helped us and been a friend to us.”

“But what you are risking surely exceeds—!”

“You need help, and we can give it,” Kirstein said, handing Lorenz Cashmere’s reins. She was already saddled, along with three other mounts from the stables. “That’s all that counts!” And added hurriedly, “Your Grace.” 

“None of that now, then,” Lorenz said, bowing his head. “Thank you, Raphael, Ignatz,” as Lysithea, already on her horse, furiously hissed, “Let’s go!” 

They followed Raphael through the overgrown vegetation behind the stables. The gate to leave the palace would be heavily guarded, but Raphael knew of a place where the wall surrounding the palace was weakened, in need of repairs that were supposed to get started in the following days. That had been before Count Gloucester barged in and uprooted every sense of order, of course. 

Lysithea had no trouble bringing a small part of the wall down, passage big enough to lead the horses through over the dilapidated heap of bricks. Lorenz had to resist the urge to cover his ears, the sound of bricks cascading down the wall at the call of Lysithea’s spell thunderous in the night. They would be heard without a doubt, but they hoped to have traveled a good deal of distance by the time his father’s soldiers found their escape route. 

It wasn’t the sound that gave them away. 

The warning cry rang out as they entered the forest, too near still to the palace. They couldn’t have possibly found the hole already. Back at the stables, they must have noticed the horses they had taken. 

With scarce moonlight lighting their path, they could not hurry their mounts. Trees and brambles swooshed out to meet them from every side. The smothering quiet around them was a stark contrast to the violent strikes of hoofbeats on gravel as soldiers readied to set out after them, the cries of alarm echoing around the sudden flare of torches.  _ Search them. _ The barks of the dogs. No time at all, before they were opening the gates and rows of torches appeared at their right, behind the foliage and too close for comfort.

After their attempt to usurp the Empire’s throne, tales of the Agarthan’s might had traveled all over Fodlan. They were masters of ancient magics, knowledgeable in all matters regarding Reason, its theory and its applications, the ways in which it had once been wielded long before anybody thought to establish certain limits, lines never to be crossed. Lorenz had already been witness to one such arts in the person now pretending to be the minister of justice, but there was no reliable evidence to gauge the power that these remaining insurgents his father had managed to hire possessed; the wealth of his knowledge as scarce as the chances of four people to escape from them through the dark of night. 

The first tree that burst into flames was one to Lorenz’s right. Heat so sudden and bright it was painful even if the fire never licked his skin. It blinded him, blinded them all, Raphael’s curses and the panicked sounds of the horses crowding in Lorenz's ears. Lorenz could keep Cashmere under control, but the others would have a hard time if their mounts panicked and threw them off. 

With the fire they could see their path at least, urge the horses to go faster. Lorenz slid forward on the saddle, lowering his body to fall flat over the mare's body and avoid the worst of the boughs' lashes. 

Faster. 

Roaring flames kept exploding, on both sides of him now, everywhere he looked that painful brightness. Lorenz pressed his face into the mare's mane, fighting not to suck in all the smoke from the fire swirling black and blacker around him. He could smell the clean, deep scent of a healthy animal in Cashmere's mane still, beneath the choking fumes of dying trees and burnt wood. It was this he focused on, the smell of freedom, as he pressed harder and harder. 

Until Lorenz realized he’d ridden ahead on his own. 

_ He  _ could go faster. The others did not have the experience he had riding. For them the shadows the fires threw around in the night were as useless as the jet black darkness when it came to guiding their mounts.

He was the one with the less to lose, he realized, if they were captured. His father would not kill him. His father could not care less about the rest of them, especially Ignatz and Raphael. By then, Lorenz knew that they were not going to make it at the speed they carried. 

He called to them in the chaos, prompted them to keep riding, to not stop or look back. 

It wasn’t until they rode ahead of him, after Lorenz had considerably pulled Cashmere’s reins to get her to slow down, that he swung off the saddle. He hadn’t completely reined in before doing so, and she continued a good way until she noticed the absence of rider. Closing his eyes with a pang of guilt he sent a gust of wind her way, scaring her and making her follow the rest of the horses and the vanishing figures of Lysithea and the others. What she carried was more important than his escape. 

Lorenz turned around. 

He didn't need to wait long for the first rider to appear. Even coming straight at him, the Agarthan didn't see him in the speed of his chaos. He was on the ground the moment his horse passed by Lorenz's side, Agnea's arrow throwing him off the saddle to crash against the trunk of the nearest tree. 

Then came the second. 

He was dizzy with exhaustion by the time the minister arrived. When the Agarthans had noticed him, it had taken much more than one spell to throw them off their horses. The minister approached slowly, on foot, careless of the bodies she had to step over to reach Lorenz. 

“Stop this here and I will surrender myself,” he gasped between gulps of breath that scorched his throat with the smoke of the fire roaring around him. His knees had buckled some time ago and he now needed the support of a tree to remain standing. 

The minister noticed it. “Stop?" she laughed, a flash of orange in her eyes, in her hair, as if the flames around them belonged with her. "You foolish little lordling. What power do you think you have over me?”

Helpless, all magic spent, he watched her approach, until she could reach out and clasp a hand around his neck. "You're going to regret stealing what you stole." 

Her nails dug into his skin as she squeezed. His head pounded, chest heaving, trying both to breath and expel the smoke he'd inhaled from his lungs, and he could do nothing—

He fell to his knees as the minister was wrenched away from him, the familiar force of a spell swirling past from behind him and sending the minister flying. 

"Don't touch him." 

Lysithea stepped in front of him. 

Before he could feel either relief or regret that she'd realized his absence and come back, the cavalry appeared behind the minister. These were neither Agarthans nor his father's soldiers. The knights dismounted and allowed a man to pass through them. 

"That's enough," Margrave Edmund said gravely, looking around himself at the destruction of the forest with bewildered eyes. His expression twisted when he looked at the minister, but she was already spinning around and leaving for the palace without an explanation. The sound of her laughter followed her. 

Lysithea helped him up. Together they watched the margrave approach. In a different tone, Edmund said again, "That's enough, son." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry for the long wait hhhhhh I kinda struggled with this one a bit. I think it came out a bit slow, but I wanted to tell Lorenz's part of the story too, not jump immediately to what comes after he steals the evidence. Hope there were some enjoyable parts!! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for every kudos and comment and everything!!! It means a lot to me ;.;


	16. XVI

Exhaustion had, in the end, caught up with him. 

Lorenz had told himself he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of surprising him in sleep, but the night had dragged on and on while in solitude; worry, which paced around in his mind, owning every little moment of his restive thoughts. Lysithea had told him, before being escorted to her chambers, that she had warped Rapahel and Ignatz to safety, realizing as they all rode back for Lorenz the consequences of their actions would fall more heavily on them. The following visit from his father had uprooted whatever reassurance her words may have had: the Count had not hesitated to inform Lorenz that his soldiers were still scouring the forest, for Lorenz’s accomplices and his horse—the mess in the library had not gone unnoticed. 

With Edmund in the room, his father had gone no further than that. It had been the margrave who had stayed after Lorenz was once again confined to his room—no bounds this time—and tried to understand. Even if Lorenz could have brought himself to trust in those severe eyes, he had had nothing with which to prove his words and justify his actions, not anymore. The look of comprehension had faded as Lorenz spoke of his father’s involvement in Godfrey’s death, his plans for Claude’s demise, the true identity of the minister, and what had truly happened with Almyra. 

_ Rest,  _ Edmund had said as he left.  _ I will make sure you lack for nothing while I try to talk some sense into your father. _

The pitying note in his voice had turned Lorenz’s insides. He didn’t know if the margrave thought him deranged or a fool, but, if Edmund’s opinion of his father had changed for the worse after the Argathans’ display at the forest, clearly so had his regard for Lorenz. 

And a fool Lorenz might have very well been. Had he lost the proof they had worked so hard to gather? He’d thought the mare would follow Lysithea, but she’d been left alone in the woods, scared and disoriented; undeserving of what Lorenz had put such a noble creature as her through. Even if Cashmere survived, and Lorenz was so tired of the helplessness of hoping, the evidence could be lost forever—whoever found her roaming in the forest would throw the worn saddle away and be done with it. And if they found the documents, and if they could read them, then who was to stop them from trying to claim a sum from the new leader of the Alliance? 

Failure was like a laden weight, heavier and heavier inside his stomach. 

  
  


In the end, blank dreams had lulled him into a restless slumber. 

Time passed strangely after that. 

He would remember waking, strong daylight pouring in; a tray with food which must be breakfast, the scent of coffee wafting toward the bed; a different tray as the light dimmed. From this one he forced himself to swallow some soup, but soon all his energy was spent. 

Again he woke to breakfast the next day, ravenous and at last clear-headed. 

In Faerghus he’d learned about post-spell exhaustion and always been careful not to surpass his limits; dragging himself to the table on legs that trembled, weak, he discovered that he, at last, had done so. He inhaled breakfast in a wholly unsightly fashion, going so far as to even drink the less than satisfactory coffee. After, his stomach still protested, half-empty. All over his body, he could feel every spell he’d cast—pinpricks of discomfort as those of a muscle too heavily exerted without proper stretching. 

It was as he was finishing the coffee, taking small sips now that it was the last thing of sustenance left, that he heard the key turning in the lock. 

Dread pulsed in his throat. 

“Lorenz,” came the greeting. 

His heart capsized in his chest when he looked at the owner of the voice that was not his father’s and he saw Margrave Edmund. If his father had had any bad news he would have come himself to gloat. It spoke to the dire quality of his position that seeing the margrave, of all people, calmed his nerves. 

“Margrave?” His voice came out hoarse. Edmund’s eyes were reluctant to stop their slow regard of the mess in the room, but at last he met Lorenz’s bewildered gaze. Lorenz asked, “What news do you bring?”

“I have spoken to your father,” Edmund said. He drew up short, an uncomfortable twist settling over his mouth. Whatever blind support Count Gloucester had expected, it wasn’t the kind that would come from Edmund. It wasn’t him whom his father had turned to in his plots. The rigid set of his shoulders betrayed his dislike of the situation. Either that or he was aware, as Lorenz presently was, that it was thanks to Claude and him that his house hadn’t been embroiled in a scandal. 

Lorenz rose from the chair. “What is it?” he demanded. 

“We didn’t know about the kind of people he has been employing. None in the council did.”

“You mean the Agarthans.” 

A tightening of the brow. “Yes,” he confirmed. “He has been very forthcoming about the intel regarding the Almyran Prince. We trusted his words. But the methods he has employed, his actions— We cannot condone them.”

“But you could when you did not know about the Agarthans,” Lorenz said, drily. 

“He told us you had consented to everything he did.” 

“I consented to being locked in my chambers?” 

“It was supposed to be for your protection.” He grimaced. “I know. But Caesar had the support of the minister, and the council was in an uproar about the Almyrans and the identity of your husband. So we believed him. And was he wrong, when he said you would not wish to pursue the man who has lied to us all?” 

“You thought killing the Almyran Prince would help in what way?” Lorenz asked in turn. “There is already strife at the border. Whatever petty revenge you want—”

Edmund raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve had time to think, after what I witnessed in the forest. I think we all have. Your father cannot deny the undeniable, which is that he has employed dire methods in his pursuit of the truth—”

“Oh, he was pursuing more than the truth.”

“—and so we have capitulated. The council wants to hear from you, Lorenz. It was not your father we the Roundtable chose.”

“You are right,” he answered. “The Roundtable voted for me _.  _ And despite that look around you. My father treated me like a prisoner and a traitor without any complaint from any of you. It is the duty of the council to uphold what the Roundtable decides, I thought. You say you have spoken to my father? Whatever farce he has allowed to be performed will only work in his favour. I shan’t waste my breath, with no proof to support me, in a room full of dukes who my father has already swayed to his side.” 

“Not only the dukes,” Edmund shook his head. “The council wants a hearing.” 

“I am not the one who should be judged,” Lorenz scoffed. “As I just said, I shan’t waste my breath in another play of my father’s.” 

“A public hearing, in the courtyard.” That gave Lorenz pause. He watched Edmund square his shoulders, his hands joined behind his back. It wasn’t the demeanor one adopted before a prisoner. His voice held the words that hadn’t been spoken in years with the deference of the old days. “With the Sky as our Witness, may the Goddess look upon our words and Judge what is Truth and what is that which stands against it.” It was the archaic form. Lorenz was too stumped to answer. “You’re too young,” Edmund continued, “but this was the way, when the Alliance was first formed, when—”

“I know my history, margrave,” Lorenz cut in. “When the times were of strife, and the will of mortals too weak to decide the fate of our country, we called upon the Goddess.” Edmund nodded, satisfied. The words were those Lorenz had read so long ago during his history lessons. His tutor had briskly explained that the reality had been much simpler; what the council had sought with those public trials had never been the judgment of the Goddess but the corroboration of the people of Leicester. The most powerful recorders of history were its eyewitnesses; what was decided behind closed doors may be misconstrued, in desperate times truth offered to burn upon the altar of corruption, a shift in power easy enough to change if the witnesses were few. “My father agreed to this?”

“He did not have much of a choice, after everything. Not only your attempted escape alerted us to the reality of your situation. It was impossible to deny the existence of the Agarthans anymore. His claims about your loyalties raised not a small number of questions. And when three houses of those who form the Roundtable insist, well.” 

A small smile played around the corners of Edmund’s mouth. Lorenz parsed through his words again, disbelieving. He almost dared not ask. 

“Three?”

“Three. Lady Lysithea only stopped trying to sneak into your room when she saw another way to help. And, of course, Lady Hilda arrived with Marianne early this morning. Marianne was determined to sway my mind, but, I admit to you now, she did not need to do so. I have witnessed, first hand, the way you have led Leicester since your investiture.” 

Edmund allowed him an intermission of quiet to digest his words. The rules of the hearing established that those to participate had to prepare in solitude, but his gratitude towards his friends—for staying by his side, for coming back—did not diminish because he could not speak to them yet. Lorenz asked the margrave to convey his feelings, if he found it prudent. 

“The hearing will decide our verdict,” Edmund concluded. “Who shall rule Leicester from now on, with our full support, no more deals in the shadows.”

There was too much in Lorenz’s mind. The earth had finally tipped back into balance, and he couldn’t help but stagger at the shift. The bleak shroud that had surrounded him since his father arrived was giving way, slowly, slowly—

“Lorenz?” the margrave called back to him before opening the door. “Think carefully about what you will say during the hearing. You will not be able to take it back.” He did not meet Lorenz’s eyes as he added, “And Almyra has never been a friend to the Alliance, the people will not condemn you for another man’s schemes.”

Cold at the reminder, Lorenz offered no parting words. 

  
  
  


Lorenz stepped into the inner courtyard that would hold the trial, leaving behind his escort of two guards, and the bells began to ring announcing noon. Just as Edmund had said. Under the pale-blue sky, patches of light here and there where the sun pushed through a few rainless clouds, a dais and stands on both sides of it had been raised for the occasion. On the other side of the courtyard the assembly of commonfolk from the city crowded behind the waist-high barrier that served to enclose the space in the middle of the courtyard where Lorenz and his father would, in turns, speak. 

Small mercies, there were chairs. Two, separated by a considerable distance Lorenz was glad for. His father had already chosen one. He walked towards the other, reining in his maudlin thoughts. This would be a fair opportunity, Edmund had said, to make his case. 

But of course, Edmund did not know his father like Lorenz had come to know him during these past few months. 

It was the count who started, after Edmund called to order and explained what the trial would decide, how the conclusions the roundtable and the council reached, there in front of everyone, would be written into the official records. Lorenz, in the meantime, had looked for his friends, whose status had them sitting next to Edmund. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but hoped they knew their presence there fortified him. He kept his thoughts far away from Claude, but still an iron cast was tightened around his heart. 

And then his father started speaking. 

The shock of it soon passed, and how foolish of the margrave, to expect of him anything but cruel deceit. Lorenz did not let himself be deterred. He had expected this of his father; for him to speak of his faults growing up, that had certainly carried on to adulthood to make of him an inappropriate ruler; of his disappointments to his family in failing to take a wife to pass on his crest, only to be inveigled by his Almyran husband showing thus his weakness of character. The speech Lorenz had prepared countered any such points of those his father made. What Edmund had told him bore no importance; the one being judged there today was Lorenz, not Claude, and, in preparing his speech, he had focused on that. 

It soon was obvious that that would not be possible. With concise sentences, meant without a doubt to reach and incite everybody in the courtyard, his father proceeded to follow Lorenz’s faults with those of Claude. How the both of them had cared not for Leicester at all, and even conspired to weaken it to Almyra’s power. Bold enough, with no proof to contradict him, he spoke of the war Almyra had started, their unsated thirst of blood pounding at their peaceful borders once more. He made sure to raise his voice during the appropriate sentences, and then paused long enough to afford a moment of protagonism to the sudden cries of shock and anger that rose from those who were only learning in full what had supposedly happened. 

Lorenz knew, then, what it was that he ought to say in order to earn the support of the people around him, nobility and commonfolk alike. The words formed readily in that part of his brain grown after so many hours of training, of repetition, of diction. 

All he had to do was fan the flames that his father had ignited and save himself. They were avid to condemn someone, and who better than Claude? His father, turned foolish and blind by his hate towards Claude and his intent to humiliate Lorenz, had made them so, not realizing the advantage that would give Lorenz. And even if they could never touch someone like the prince of Almyra, it was enough for them to listen to someone drag his name through the mud. They would support whoever did it best, even Lorenz.

It dawned on him that this was what Edmund had meant. He had known, in all the wisdom of his years as not only a politician but renowned orator, that this was what it would come to. 

And so it wasn’t the speech he had prepared what Lorenz spoke. Just as he knew what the people of Derdriu wanted to hear, he knew what he wanted to say. In the end it was simple; because Leicester had never been a friend to Almyra, but someone had decided, all the same, to try and bridge that insurmountable distance, hold out a hand. 

“You request of me that I defend my position,” he began, rising from his seat the moment his father was done, “but these good intentions you claim are tainted with the truth of your purpose. In order to prove myself innocent of this plot my father has orchestrated, there is but one path you will allow me to take. You, all of you,” and he let his gaze drift over every noble present, “claim you have the best interests of the Alliance at heart. If this is so, will it help my case if I propose we go over everything I have done since my investiture? It will not. It is not even needful that we do so, the council knows what my deeds have been, where my focus has stayed. You will say that these actions were simply furthering someone else’s schemes, will you not? And the truth, well, the truth is, they were.”

Whispers, too many to resemble any sort of quiet, rose from the crowd behind him. And in front of him, Lorenz watched the first signs of displeasure, the councilors reclined back in their seats barely disguised it; some hid the stiff set of their mouths behind laced hands, others found a mote of dust to brush off their sleeves. 

Lorenz continued in a steady voice; let it carry, do not overstretch it, his tutor had said. “For I did not rule by myself. My actions were indeed molded by the influence of the man I had to marry to avoid war. The conflict of our Houses forced us into this—the petty squabbles that for years had not been settled by our forebearers were now ours to fix. What am I guilty of? listening to him? working by his side?” The breath must come from deep inside. Not shallow, never shallow, reach towards your stomach. “Because I chose none of it.” It was harder now, not letting the rushing stream that came from his lungs drag his words with it. He had to articulate. He had to taste the shape of what he was saying. He had to face the truth that had begun everything. “I never wanted a stranger by my side, or his bewildering politics to come near my name,” he admitted, almost glad that Claude was riding for the border and far away. “And despite what my father has said, I never knew that he was Almyran royalty.” 

If any hesitation had remained within him, it deserted him when Edmund expressed his approval with a nod, leaning forward in his seat—good; he wanted every ear turned his way. Lorenz did not dare check his friends’ faces. 

“Is that what you wish to hear? I will say it again. I chose none of it.” It wasn’t his tutor’s advice that propelled forward the next part of his speech. It was not a conscious choice anymore. As if speaking one truth, it became inevitable that the other should follow. And this one burned in his lungs right up until the instant it left his lips, but not with the destructive heat of flames. It was a quieter fire, perhaps how it would have felt, in some other life, to lie under the sun and breath in its distant glow, as around him a green valley awakened. Lorenz said, “But I would do it all over again.” The endorsement, so evident a second ago on Edmund’s face, fractured in the silence that followed. Lorenz used the pause to gather air into his breast, calm the beating of his heart. He knew Edmund was not going to like it, and he would not be the only one. It was one of the many reasons why it was of such importance that he said it. “The Alliance has stood strong against the invisible threat of the Agarthans because this man you accuse of cheating, of betrayal, of treason, was by my side. And because you cannot reconcile that the Crown Prince of Almyra had the best interest of our nation at heart, you ask me now to point my finger at him and pile on his shoulders failings that were neither his nor mine. If we are fractured today it is because of one man, yes. But no other than Count Gloucester, who you would allow, nay, invite, to sit on the seat that the roundtable, as is its right, voted Claude and me for. 

“Do any of you remember when my husband was almost killed?” he asked, letting his eyes roam over the councilors who had worked so closely with them both. “Oh, but you do not care. You do not care that Claude almost died because you never liked his proposals. You never liked that you did not know where he came from, in the first place. Neither did I. We pride ourselves on our modernism, on our Roundtable—how advanced, compared to Adrestia and Faerghus, are we? But we are stuck to the Crest status as they are, we are stuck to the old ways and the unquestioning rule of the church. What’s worse, we keep and fund a hostile frontline to the west for conflict to arise and lives to be lost, all because we cannot bear to share land with people different than ourselves. 

From the stands now comments flew, back and forth between the nobility. It would not be long, before they started forcibly voicing their opinions. 

“You wish me to condemn Claude? Fine. He is guilty of discovering that Count Gloucester ordered the assassination of our previous leader, Godfrey von Riegan. Not only that, but that my father has been working for months with a group of wanted criminals from Adrestia, the Agarthans. Claude is guilty of working day after day to restore our treasury, uncover those who tried to evade their duties, and give a second chance to them. He is guilty of caring for this wretched country, and its people, and its future, more than any of you will ever know to do. For what future will there be if we do not try to improve the mistakes of the past, if we do not try to see past the senseless hatred that has already given us too much war?” 

Edmund was rising to his feet. Lorenz took one step forward and tilted his chin back, and his voice did not waver. 

“If anything of what you are saying today is true, it is that I have understood his intentions for a very long time now. I may not have deciphered the blood that runs through his veins but neither do I care—I have known  _ him  _ for months, as wholly as I have known myself.” His voice cracked, weary now; his chest was tight. But even when he paused for breath nobody, not even Edmund who seemed frozen on his feet, interrupted him. Into that almost eerie silence the words, from deep within him, poured. “You can strip me of my position, take away my titles, because I have known for months that his heart is true, his intentions selfless and good, and his spirit braver than any of yours could ever hope to be. Leicester is only a better country for him having touched it, as I am a better man. And if the Goddess herself offered to take me back in time, there is not one thing I would change if the result was never to know him as I have.”

Whatever it was that he had expected to achieve—and he could not for the life of him remember what it had been, almost lightheaded as he was now after speaking to what could be a hundred people something he had only admitted to himself in the most private corners of his self—the utter silence was a shock. 

Not one draught of sound from jaws clenched in anger, not one wild gust that shouted for his immediate deposition. It wasn’t, either, the silence of composed acceptance—this one cut to the quick, thick as awed fear, tense with possibilities, as if the skies had opened. 

None of them were looking at Lorenz. 

Edmund’s legs seemed to fail him and, were it not for the chair behind him he might have fallen off the stands. But by his side, neither Marianne nor Hilda seemed surprised. This was what should have tipped him off, perhaps. But the mere possibility defied reason, defied the scarce sliver of hope Lorenz had thought gone, defied any ounce of common sense a man should have— And then, of course, he knew. 

As he slowly turned towards the now-rising commotion behind him, followed the bewildered stares of the nobles, before his eyes gazed across the width of the courtyard, past the floor tiles which had been swept for the trial, over the crowd and the path carved among them they were only now beginning to close. There, rumpled after pushing his way past the crowd, black cloak torn at the seam of one shoulder, Claude stood. 

And despite the tattered cloak, and the rise and fall of his chest, he was there as if he had always stood there. It was the rest who was finally catching up. It was Lorenz who was finally looking back. 

The pressure in Lorenz’s chest rose to an impossible crescendo roaring in his ears and then burst—dissolved, broke as if he’d been struck. This wasn’t the fracture that shattered, but the one that settled; the return to what was right. There was a fathomless abyss under him no longer, suddenly he was not sinking, and he could take one breath, and the next, and the next, relearning the experience of undrowning. 

Every fear should have doubled at his being there, in danger of countless threats, but the moment their eyes met the whole world threatened to fade; the noon sun, whose stout rays pooled around Claude in a circle of warmest light; the diffident air that filled the space between them; the long shadows of those around them, either crying out in surprise or dead silent. As if the relief of seeing Claude alive, of watching the assurances pouring forth from his eyes, was too big a feeling; it swelled inside Lorenz’s chest, crowded and banished the weakening fears. 

Lorenz realized he had raised one hand to his chest, where pain pierced him in its gentlest form, and deliberately lowered it. 

It was impossible to even consider that the Riegan keep had fallen and Claude was there as a prisoner, or under the strain of his last desperate plan: he claimed the ground beneath his feet the way he might claim his crown, one day. The tide that had brought him there had been none other than that of his own making. His eyes shone the green of sunlight through the colored glass one found sometimes washed ashore, and while they looked at one another, just like those pieces of glass that give up their edges for the embrace of the sea, he was devoid of every defense. 

Jagged disbelief cut across his features, tinged with the selfsame apprehension to hope that Lorenz felt, but shattering over and over again against the untampered yearning for understanding. Lorenz wanted to carve himself open to let him find it, find that what he’d heard, hidden amidst the assembly, had been the unadulterated truth. Not the last words Lorenz had spoken to him, which had been coloured in defeat, shock, powerlessness. Lorenz would repeat the truth as many times as Claude needed him to—he had nothing to give him but that, nothing that could compare to what he was feeling. Because Claude was alive, and he hadn’t ridden for the border, he had come back. 

Then a muscle jumped in Claude’s jaw and soon, too soon, he was tearing his gaze away, careful as ever to school his face into what he wanted, smooth over anything unnecessary with a smile etched in place. It was not the place to entreat him not to turn himself away from Lorenz; even so he almost forgot their surroundings enough to do it. 

As rigid, cutting, as Claude’s smile seemed to Lorenz, it was certain to work on everybody else, every duke and councilor his eyes traced at his leisure. Especially when he topped it with: 

“It is rude,” said Claude, convincingly light, “to discuss others behind their back.” 


	17. XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I'm so, so sorry for the long wait :( I knew the last stretch would take me a while, so I decided to wait to have a good chunk before posting the next chapter, so as not to leave you guys with YET ANOTHER cliffhanger lol. The fic is not yet finished, but I DID write three chapters which I'm publishing now all together bc I do not know the meaning of patience. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for sticking with me all this while!!^^

_ “Arrest him!”  _ Count Gloucester’s voice rang out. He had gone up the dais to stand beside Edmund, his face contorted in fury. 

From the corner of his eye, Claude saw Lorenz start moving toward him. He had fractions of a second to turn his face to him once again, make sure Lorenz understood the minute shake of his head, and then two soldiers were closing in on him. 

They were exactly as rough as they had the liberty to be. Despite his lack of obvious weapons they did not hesitate to wrench his arms behind his back to drag him further into the courtyard, closer to Lorenz. 

Further away from the place Judith would reach when she left behind the anonymity of the crowd. 

He wouldn’t hear the end of it, for rushing in alone. 

But he had heard Lorenz’s voice. After days of uncertainties, worry, doubt, he had heard his voice. 

Judith would say it had been foolish. The most essential thing at the moment was to make sure Count Gloucester got what was coming to him. 

“He was carrying this,” one of the soldiers said, approaching the dais. He gave Count Gloucester the satchel Claude had carried under his cloak. Lorenz, recognizing the bag, stiffened. They were close enough now that Claude could see the repressed line of his set mouth, and—as the count retrieved the sheath of papers—the first quiver of doubt loosening his lips so a silent gasp escaped him. 

He was close enough to see the bruise that purpled the cusp of Lorenz’s cheek. For the second time in minutes, he had to drag his eyes off Lorenz. The white-hot flare of anger made it easier than before. Made it easier to focus on Count Gloucester, who was not going to get away with this. 

Behind him, the guard wrenching his arm behind his back tightened his hold, as if to compensate for the sudden tension running through every muscle in Claude’s body. The pain in his shoulder swelled, sharp and suddenly past the point of silent endurance. 

“That’s enough, soldier,” Lorenz said then. “He carries no weapons, unhand him.” 

After a moment of hesitation, in which the unmovable ice in Lorenz’s eyes did not thaw, the soldier stepped back. Claude rubbed his shoulder. Before he could make his mouth move, form words, before he could do anything but search Lorenz’s face for any signs of hurt beyond the bruise, a voice called them back to the reality of their situation. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Count Gloucester demanded, now pale, slamming the documents on the table without looking past the first page. Lorenz, silent, watched what he had risked everything for, now lost in the clutches of his father. Claude clenched his jaw shut. “I will not allow it!” the count continued. “I do not know how you sneaked past our lookouts, but your ridiculous quest ends here. This pile of lies deserves not one minute of the time of the council.” 

“Let them read it, then,” Claude dared him. “If it’s just my lies, what harm will there be?” 

“Ridiculous!”

“I’d bet Margrave Edmund would like to know what it is you’re hoarding there for yourself.” The count’s hand spasmed on top of the papers, crumpling the pages. “What about you, esteemed minister? Not much of a fan of evidence, lately?”

“You stupid buffoon—” the Agarthan in disguise snarled, snickering, and several heads turned in her direction. 

Count Gloucester spoke over her. “You will not soil our sacred traditions! I think this trial has offered but one uncontested rightful ruler, and that is who will stop your craven lies for good. Soldiers—!”

“No!” Lorenz took one step toward the dais, fists clenched, but he stopped when he realized moving further would put too much space between him and Claude, who would not be allowed to approach the dais. He raised his voice to be heard over the tumult of a crowd of dozens speaking at once. “There has been no decision, Edmund.” 

“That is right, we have yet to reach a conclusion, Ceasar. You must cease your rush at once and allow us to deliberate—” 

Before Claude knew it, a loud scoff had left his lips. 

The count was further speaking, but Claude's voice drowned it. "Deliberate?" he repeated, aghast. "I won't speak as your ruler here, not anymore, but if you, any of you, think there's something to deliberate here this is a bigger joke any fool could have conceived. Lorenz is your uncontested leader; in fact the Alliance would suffer if he were not. Almyra will only negotiate with him. Count Gloucester is to blame for the loss of Almyran lives—my kingdom will not stand for him to occupy any place other than a cell. If you do not believe us all you need to do is see the evidence for yourselves.” The papers were in such a precarious position: in the hands of one who wanted it destroyed, between the minister who had the means to do so without any effort at all and the margrave, whose eyes kept wandering downward, trying to decipher something of what lay beneath Gloucester's clutch. 

It would take but one more push. 

"And what does the council say to Gloucester hiding all those notes? I must say I am a little hurt. You weren’t so forgiving to me, for withholding information from you." 

The council began to stir, when addressed. Two of the younger councilors, who'd been less inflexible to try to understand Claude's ideas, rose from their seats and hesitated. 

Gloucester was visibly struggling. He wiped the sweat off his brow. 

"Edmund!" Lorenz called. "Take them from him." 

"If you care for the truth at all,” Claude too addressed Edmund now, “if you want to uphold the promises you made to us to protect this country, read those documents." 

_ "Now." _

"Before they—"

All present watched how, drowned in the congregation of a hundred exclamations, the flames that the minister had conjured with a flick of her hand turned the papers to ashes. 

Lorenz did not think twice before moving forward. Expecting this, Claude dashed to stop him. “Trust me?” Claude asked. He did it searching Lorenz’s eyes, as Lorenz turned at his pull and with a drawn breath realized who it was with a hand wrapped around his wrist. Certain, and half afraid of the answer, and so helplessly relieved to feel the solid shape of Lorenz’s wrist—the skin that was cold with worry, underneath it the flesh, tendons, arteries, bones that reaffirmed him as safe, as whole as the steadfast beating of his pulse—Claude said, “Trust me one more time.” 

A line of repressed confusion appeared between Lorenz’s eyebrows for so brief a moment Claude may have imagined it. Blinking rapidly, taking in every inch of Claude’s face as if to imprint him in his mind, Lorenz said, so quiet Claude almost missed it, “I do.” It was a faint echo from the past, something Claude recognized as a memory as it unfolded before him; that one sentence, those two words. How time had changed them. A slight shake of the head, something glittering buried behind the curtain of his hair; then, clearer, “I trust you. Always.” 

It was all there was time to explain with witnesses everywhere around them; perhaps even that simple touch more than was prudent, with Lorenz’s words robbing Claude of air, but he could not imagine letting go. 

Inconceivable, too, Lorenz’s gaze looking back at him—a landscape of privacy created in the space held between their eyes, full of answers to questions neither of them dared ask. It was a relinquishing the likes of which Claude had never known before and one which he was certain he would never know again with anybody else. Lorenz had unwittingly carved himself a path inside his heart, and these were the fruits of that reckless endeavour: a glance with the power to calm every past fear—and set alight a hundred more, for the unknown ache that would come. It would come, even if they were successful. 

Then Lorenz shifted the position of his hand to hold Claude’s, palm to palm, tightening his grip for a second of reassurance, of understanding. A smile threatened the corners of Claude’s mouth, but it was made of things out of reach, he reminded himself. Even if Lorenz put himself in his hands now, tomorrow nothing would bind them anymore, and Almyra would loom in the distance. He separated himself from Lorenz, adding in a light tone, only slightly shaky, “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

And, raising two fingers to his mouth, he whistled. It seemed impossible that over the noise of the shell-shocked crowd and the sputters of Edmund’s indignation as the wind blew away the ashes the whistle would reach anybody. 

“What are you waiting for!” Gloucester snarled at his guards, uncaring of Edmund’s red-faced anger. “I want them both in chains.”

The soldiers around them took one step forward and, seeing that nothing at all had changed after Claude’s whistle, kept coming, prompted by Gloucester’s shrieking orders.

Ignoring the encroaching circle of drawn swords, Lorenz fanned the flames. “The minister destroyed vital information, of utmost relevance to this trial. She is not the minister we know. You saw her in the forest!” he implored of Edmund. 

As reluctant to attack their previous rulers as the soldiers were, their hesitation would not last for long. Claude joined his voice to Lorenz's. “You know the truth. You know how we work.” 

“She’s an Agarthan,” Lorenz exclaimed. "You know that is the truth." 

Something silent passed between him and the margrave. 

Then, at last, just as Claude was readying his first throwing knife, Edmund gave the order: his soldiers in their blue capes against the count’s, and, the rapier at Edmund's hip drawn, the count under arrest. 

“You cannot do this,” Count Gloucester bellowed. “Not without evidence. Not without the Roundtable whole!” 

And, slightly delayed, thought just in time for the big entrance, Claude heard familiar footsteps behind him. He let a smile curl his lips, because to make an arrest without any proof required the consensus of all of the roundtable families. 

And Judith of House Daphnel had finally weaved her way through the crowd and was answering his call.

“The roundtable is here whole,” she announced, coming to stand by Claude’s side. 

“Because however much you wish it weren’t so,” Claude added, enjoying the livid quality of the count’s complexion, “the Riegan crest is still in my blood.”

“But th-the evidence—” 

“Oh, the evidence is here, safe and sound.” Claude accepted the bag Judith passed over to him, hefted it in his hand to show its weight. “I fear you will have to make your apologies to the cook at Riegan keep, for inducing the burning of her inventory, which she’d religiously kept for two years.”

He smirked, as the air itself quietened to hear. “Who would have said you would be your own damnation? You cannot accuse anybody else of spurious machinations now, can you? You allowed essential documents to be burned in order to protect yourself, to hide the trail of blood that leads only to you. Bribery, treason, murder. It’s time for you to pay, both for the Alliance and for Almyra.” 

As tempting as it was to decipher the exact shade of green the Count was turning, his eyes were drawn to Lorenz. The clear-eyed surprise, the assured relief and doubtless confidence. Claude nodded his head in his direction. “You did this,” he said, his heart beating too hard. It had been meant too for the crowd, to tell them: This is your leader, take care of him. It came out too quiet. 

Lorenz’s eyes were bright. It looked as if he were to speak. A sudden commotion prevented him. 

Because, taking advantage of the shock, the minister had moved and, faster than any of them expected, she rid herself of the restraints Edmund’s guards had put around her wrists and jumped off the dais. She threw back her head, laughter lashing out of her mouth. “I have been pulled this way and that by the politics of this rotten country for months. It ends now.” She raised her hands and started weaving some invisible pattern with them in the air. “Gloucester promised me I could have all the fun I wanted with you once this was over.” Her lips stretched into an unhinged show of teeth. “Now it begins!” 

“Hapi!” Claude called. 

Gloucester has a dark mage on his side, was all he’d needed to say before she agreed to take care of it. Without delay she jumped out of the assembly of commonfolk and cast a spell to interrupt the Agarthan’s. Lysithea, who must have had an eye on the Agarthan this whole time, ran down the dais to help, and along with Lorenz still by his side, they joined their powers to Hapi’s. 

“Everybody get back!” Lorenz warned. 

A wave of harried fear poured down the dais. Guards ran with the keys for the doors sealing off the courtyard. 

Even so, they would not get away on time. And their current power was not enough to stop her. She shook them off as if swatting off flies, and an awful pressure started building all around them, darkening the sky. It became clear she had nothing as peculiar as a target in mind; destruction was her pursuit. Count Gloucester used the confusion, as the ground started shaking and the dais to fall apart, as the crowd screamed and cracks ran up the walls enclosing them all in the inner courtyard, to escape the grasp of the soldiers and run to take refuge behind her. 

“Here, boy!” came from Claude's left. 

Claude snatched Failnaught from the air and nocked an arrow. Unerringly it flew. Just before meeting flesh, an invisible barrier slapped it out of its path. He cursed out loud. But before he could try again, the bow slid between his fingers. Lorenz was keeling over, and Claude barely grabbed him in time, surrounding his waist with his arms, desperately calling his name when he saw how pale he was. “I’m fine,” Lorenz said, wiping the blood pouring down his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t look fine. “Cursed spell-exhaustion.” He clutched Claude’s shoulder to steady himself upright. “We need to—” 

Suddenly a force bigger than any of them could have summoned passed through the static cloud of magic growing above their heads, pierced the Agarthan’s barrier, and slammed its unspeakable weight against the minister, throwing her off her feet.

The spell broke, unfinished, over their heads, with a loud shattering sound that joined that of the wyvern roaring. The loose, unmastered magic turned wild, surged forward like a wave breaking. By the time it reached them, Claude had clutched Lorenz against him and covered him with his body, turning his back to the surge of power. But it was nothing more than unfinished power, fraying at the edges, and it carried none of the destructiveness that it had meant to. 

What it did carry was wind strong enough to raise dust all around them. That, along with the fog thick as smoke that fell down the sky from the last dregs of the spell, blinded them all. A wall separating neighbour from neighbour, harmless despite its blinding solidity. The only person Claude could see, in the temporary chaos, was Lorenz, so close to him inside the circle of his arms. 

“Are you all right?” he asked him, cupping his cheeks with hands that trembled. The nosebleed had stopped, but the magic had taken a toll on him, and against Claude’s darker skin, his face looked utterly bloodless. 

But he had not lost consciousness.

His eyes were clear. He was gazing back at Claude. 

Slender fingers, chilled to the bone and yet more lifegiving than any brazier in the midst of winter, touched Claude’s face, trailed down from forehead to cheek to jaw; down to rest on one side of his neck, his shoulder that no more than dimly glowered after the mistreatment of the soldier. Finding no injury on him, Lorenz nodded, slowly. “I am.” And he bent his head until forehead pressed against forehead. “I am, now.” 

I am. 

The aborted spell had descended on them with a quiet that was starting to fade away. The relieved cheers of safety echoing inside the courtyard would soon give way to less joyous sounds when the wyverns, and their Almyran riders, came into view. He needed to take care of that. He probably needed, also, to give Cyril lands and endless honours for arriving just in time. Not only that, he’d only done half of what he’d intended: the council had not recognized Lorenz as ruler yet. 

Right now, everything could wait until the smoke settled. He would need a steady hand for all that. 

_ I am, now.  _

Claude closed his eyes, Lorenz’s solid presence the only anchor amidst the smoke as he tightly wrapped his arms around Claude, and held him. And held him, as Claude enveloped him in that same vital embrace, every second of shared warmth strengthening the one certainty Claude had clung to. You're safe, you're safe. 

Claude said, hoarse, “I’m sorry I took so long.” 

“You shouldn’t have come at all,” Lorenz remonstrated. Claude could easily picture the familiar frown, and almost smiled. “Are you aware of the level of danger you senselessly put yourself in?” 

“Not senselessly,” he insisted, even though Lorenz started drawing back. “I’m pretty sure I had a very good reason to do it. Besides—” 

Softly, so softly Claude almost continued speaking, Lorenz brushed his lips over his. 

“Thank you,” Lorenz murmured, before leaning in again. 

And Claude didn’t want to open his eyes, and he accepted Lorenz’s kiss and took it and chased his mouth, forgetting everything he’d told himself; how, if there was no way forward for them, then it was better not to let what they had go on, the drumming beat of his heart an undercurrent of hope delivering him where he belonged—he had heard Lorenz’s words, he had looked into his eyes and shared that searing faith, in each other, in what they had achieved— 

Lorenz’s lips parted for the second kiss; it gently deepened, like the dawn on a clear morning, like the sunlight now piercing the vanishing fog around them. 

—it was always like this. He was weak to this and he was endangering Lorenz's status again, and even if Lorenz’s lips on him told of forgiveness Claude couldn’t—wouldn’t—

He touched Lorenz’s cheek and drew himself away. 

It could not have lasted more than a few seconds; it was the moment he’d lived in if he could choose. Until the wind blew, and Lorenz, frowning at Claude’s slow retreat, hair across his face, impatiently pushed it behind his ear. 

Claude took a step back. 

Lorenz must have seen something of it in his face. “What is it?” 

“You’re wearing the earring?” 

“Yes.” A tentative smile. “I… There’s a lot I have to tell you, but that can wait, we will have time, and— What is it, Claude?” 

“No, it’s nothing.” He tried erasing it off his face, yet Lorenz’s smile slowly crumpled, piece by piece, until only confusion remained, and that was the last he saw before obeying every cowardly instinct and looking away. “We’ll talk about it, but not now. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“That’s not it,” said Lorenz. “I know what I said the last time we spoke… What I did, pretending you weren’t who you were and hoping to hide it. It was wretched of me and I hope you can forgive me, I will—”

“Stop, stop: I was the one who lied to you. But that's not it. Everybody knows who I am.” He was not looking at Lorenz; couldn't, the way a body failed to find purchase on a piece of wreckage in a storm and sank. "You almost lost your position because of me, and those just arrived are the Almyran reinforcements Cyril went to get.”

“I almost lost my position because of my father!” 

“No.You had no support because you refused to accuse me—” 

“Edmund helped us,” he hissed, all the ease of speech forsaking him so that the words sounded dragged out of his throat. The next were softer, quiet in their plea, still in the air between them. “Look at me.” 

They were almost a relief, the footsteps approaching on broken tiles that carried with them the clank of armour. “Your Grace, where shall we take him?”

The two soldiers received the weight of their combined stares. They carried an unconscious figure between them. 

The healers would not have much trouble fixing him, but at first glance there was enough blood to question even that judgment. Looking at him you remembered once again that the wyvern had flashed down in attack, not simple landing. You remembered Count Gloucester following in after the Agarthan, the by-now probably dead Agarthan. The cut to the Count’s scalp bled profusely down one half of his face, and his nose had been broken, a wheezing sound coming in and out every time he breathed. Only the efforts of the guards were keeping him upright, one leg bent in an unnatural angle. 

Death, an exit without any reparations given, would have been too kind a fate for him. But there was no feeling of relief at seeing him alive. In fact there was nothing, just hollowness. It would fall to Lorenz to deal with him and everything he represented. 

And still, “I can deal with this,” he offered, quietly, because Lorenz was standing unmoving, not taking his eyes off his father, watching his father ruined, his father stripped of everything that had once made him, be it the ambition or pride. 

The guards shifted on their feet, a request for orders in their eyes. 

And then as his head rolled limblessly forward Claude saw the count was still conscious. With effort, he was turning his face toward them. For a moment the count seemed not to know who to target, looking from Lorenz to Claude and back again. Then he said to Lorenz, “I raised you…” His voice broke in pain, as wracking coughs battered even further his body. “Please, help me my son, I don't deserve this. I only wanted the best for our line, for you. You’ve always been such a good son, obedient and helpful and—” 

“That’s enough,” Claude cut in, sickened; the hollowness filling and there was only anger, and that was almost worse. He was not used to this kind of purposeless, blinding fury. But here he learnt it, because often, he had watched Lorenz go ice cold, taking shelter beneath the armour of nobility and appropriateness as something went dark in his eyes, and as he did it again now, he realized who it was that had first made that a necessity. It was such an odd sight, now that he knew the extent of Lorenz’s warmth. 

Here he learned it and here he let it go—this was not about him. “Lorenz?” he called to him, gingerly touching the back of his hand.

“It's all right,” Lorenz answered, blinking out of his stupor. He did not seem angry, only exhausted. He cleared his throat and spoke to his father. “I’ve made my peace with it. I do not know if I believe there are those truly beyond help, but I do believe there are those in the hands of justice. Justice will see to you now. Justice from the Alliance, or justice from Almyra.” And to the guards: “Take him to the cells and call for a healer.” 

They stood together, looking after the retreating figures until they disappeared. With the mist gone, they would not be left alone for long. Claude glimpsed Judith standing in a non-obtrusive fashion nearby, her hawk’s gaze fastened on them. On their clasped hands between them. 

“Thank you.” He was startled into looking up and into Lorenz’s eyes. There was none of the resentment he had feared there. “I don’t think I could have done this without you.” He gave one impossibly weary smile. Claude did not look away this time. Then Lorenz added, “You mentioned the support of the council, but they would never have in a million years stood by me as you did. They are not what I care about, or what I want, or what I need. They are but a responsibility. They are not my life. I thought you knew that.” He disentangled their hands. “But we can’t keep talking about it, not here, not now. We should turn our attention to matters at hand.” 

“You’re right. But will you follow Judith, first? She has something important to show you. Someone, more like. You will be glad to do so, I promise you. And the rest can wait, for a bit.” 

Lorenz looked at him, his head cocked. Something washed over his face, touched upon his lips a joyless, wry smile. “Of course,” he said. “I trust you, after all.” He didn't say it to hurt him. Maybe that was why it did, so badly, a knife piercing flesh.

That had passed, more than once, before in his life. He didn't think this would, not as seamlessly as skin knitting itself back together. 

No sooner had Lorenz left with Judith than he heard the booming voice calling his name. He turned, passing a hand over his face. Things had worked out as he had planned. So too would the rest. Except he could feel Lorenz’s lips still, the aching sweetness of his kiss, and he dreaded forgetting. But, no. What are you willing to give up? Perhaps everything, but not Lorenz's happiness. Not his dream of leading the Alliance to a better place. Claude knew the weight a dream had. He stepped forward, searching for Nader and for Cyril. That was what he had to do.

It was not long before he saw them, and they saw him. Nader walked toward him with such an impetuous stride Claude pictured himself being trampled to the ground. And then Nader was in front of him, his face just as remembered. “Well, if that wasn’t an entrance then I don’t know what is!” he clamoured, a heavy arm slung over Claude’s shoulders, and Claude let the familiarity of it guide him back. He clapped him between the shoulder blades. 

“I expected nothing less of the Undefeated. Nor of you, Cyril.” And he approached him, hands on his shoulders to make sure he was all right. It was a short inspection. Claude said, “Aren’t you on the wrong side of this lovely reunion?” and Lysithea shoved him away. 

She was smiling. 

“Ugh, I can’t believe you! I hope you know you owe me for holding back the Agarthan. And Cyril! If it weren’t for him—” 

“Yeah, yeah. I am sure we are all very happy Cyril is here. Some more than others,” he added, his eyes falling on their linked hands. 

A pretty flush filled Lysithea’s cheeks. “Whatever! I am going to check on Lorenz now. You’re impossible.” 

After she’d left, Claude looked from Cyril to Nader and sighed. “Well, that was fun while it lasted, but it’s back to work, isn’t it?” 

“This husband of yours won’t like it, if what Cyril tells me is right,” Nader warned. Clade could feel Cyril’s eyes on him, knowing too much, seeing right through him. Nader was easier, even when he said things like, “Shouldn’t you talk to him, first?” 

Claude only shook his head. “The last thing he needs is to have to explain a private meeting with the prince of Almyra. This trial is not over for him.” And, “It’ll work out,” he said, both for their benefit and his own. “It always does.” 

—

Judith had led him into the east wing parlour, and he’d followed with a faint grip on everything around him, knowing there was so much he had to do and not being able to recall or even decide where to start.

But there, a woman had been waiting. 

She rose. Her arms, her face, open in welcome, in relief. 

With her, one of the few certainties that were left. 

Lorenz didn’t know how Claude managed it, but he and his mother were left alone in that parlour as the sun slanted through the curtains. Later he would think back on it and realize that he'd had to deal with the freshly-arrived Almyran reinforcements, who had every right to anger and suspicion; also he must have contended with the anxious nobility of the Alliance, including Edmund, and the agitated crowd that had surely ended up witnessing more than they had signed for. He must have placated them all and assuaged their fears, in a way Edmund must have approved of, because nobody interrupted his time with his mother. But Lorenz did not think of this then: that first shock of seeing his mother and realizing her health was much better than he would have dared hope blindly overwhelming. 

He sat, next to her, as she told him everything. If he'd known what was to come, what Claude had orchestrated, he would have stalked out there and stopped it instead. 

It was after every lachrymose explanation had been made, and he thought he understood, at last, the many things that had escaped him for years, that Edmund came in. Lorenz received him with an almost impossible sense of calmness—now it would take more than his mother's involvement as a spy to unsettle him. 

“Forgive the interruption,” Edmund said. “but the council wanted to know if you would do us the honour of coming to the war room, Your Grace.” 

“Your Grace?” Lorenz repeated, bemused. 

Edmund awkwardly cleared his throat. “We believe the trial, though chaotic, allowed us to reach a consensus. If you still wish to lead us, that is, of course.” 

“Lorenz, you do not have to. If it was only your father’s wish— Please, you mustn't let ambition come between you and your happiness!”

“No." He clutched his mother's hands in his. "That is not it, mother. I want to do this. It was never just what father ordered. I believe I can do good." Tears sprang to his mother's eyes. "It is thanks to your support," he told her, from the bottom of his heart, "and your love that I am ready as I am."

"What about your husband?" she asked, quiet. She had explained all she knew, and how. She had given Lorenz back an ounce of hope, because Claude had carried out of Derdriu two things: a hairpin thought to be lost, and a ridiculous promise that he thought he needed to fulfill—Lorenz would prove him wrong. They did not need to sacrifice anything for the sake of their future. Claude had once seemed willing to risk it, and he had taught Lorenz how to throw caution to the wind. 

"My husband will understand. This is his dream as well, mother." 

And whatever it was that in the little time they had shared Claude had let her see of him, it drew a smile from his mother's lips. "Go to him, then." 

Lorenz said, "Edmund, I will be right behind you." 

“Before we set out, I feel compelled to mention there are some concerns you should be prepared for. It is why the council chose the war room, big enough to seat us all, both sides. For we do this in hurry: The Almyran delegation is demanding an audience."

“The Almyran delegation? Do you mean Claude—?” He bit his tongue. 

Was that what Claude meant to do? His heart started picking up speed. He had thought they'd have time to talk in private. Instead Claude had given him this precious time with his mother to settle his thoughts. It was typical, Lorenz thought, suddenly choked with appreciation tinged by anger. Claude had to control everything—Lorenz was not going to let him. 

"Very well," Lorenz said. "Take me there." 

Everybody was sitting, by the time he arrived with Edmund. The council, the members of the Roundtable, the Almyran generals with their prince between them. It was these men and women Claude had been trained to command, and as imposing as they looked in the rough battle gear that they had worn from the border battles, Claude, who had his head tilted to one side listening to something the man by his side was telling him, remained the same. Not only self-possessed and confident, even opposite the nobility he’d been lawfully leading less than a week ago, but familiar and recognizable to Lorenz too. 

Lorenz clung to this. Even as their gazes met and Claude’s flitted away, from the opposite side of the table denying any attempt at silent communication, impassive, Lorenz clung to the sense of ease Claude’s presence there gave him. 

He needed it sooner than he would have thought. 

The man Claude had been talking to—and who Lorenz would have sworn, from all of Holst’s eager descriptions, was Nader the Undefeated—rose at the same time Claude did, to introduce his liege. 

Afterwards, Lorenz mechanically sat in his place at the head of the table, while Prince Khalid the Eternal, First of his Name, and future Great King of the Longlasting Lands of Almyra, doing the same on his end of the table, said, the first thing he said in that room, “Almyra demands reparations.” 

Khalid. His name was Khalid. 

There was a political disaster to be solved, the foreign affairs of his country rattled up like a wasp’s nest. 

And his name was Khalid. 

He had not met Lorenz’s gaze since they parted in the courtyard. He had given him time to calm his disrupted mind. 

Now he was giving him this—not like either of them wished it to be. 


	18. XVIII

He’d come to the Alliance to find his uncle’s killer. To rule and continue the Riegan legacy. And now having done the former, he had no intention of pursuing the latter. Claude made sure to dress it up with as many pretty words as he knew how, but that was the gist of it. And then, of course: “I will give up any claims I have to House Riegan and the leading of the Alliance. Thus the union between the House of Gloucester and myself would be rendered obsolete.” It had to seem like he was looking at Lorenz. It was him who was his equal here. But nobody would notice if he fixed his eyes instead on that strand of hair that limned one side of his face and carved out into relief the sharp cheekbone, for example. The way it remained fixed in place as he spoke, because Lorenz was good at not reacting as well. At lying in wait. “I will return to Almyra and focus on matters regarding my future kingdom and, of course, its borders: Almyra will cease all armed conflict if the Alliance does the same.” He thought he might be safe as long as he did not meet Lorenz’s eyes. “But Almyra has suffered losses. Losses not easily mended. And so we want back the lands east of the Throat, the fields that surround the river Escamandros and its tributaries.” 

He inhaled a measured intake of air, having finished. He didn’t want to think about what he’d said, and had to resist the impulse to look down at his hands to avoid Lorenz’s searing gaze, and the reaction his words brought forth. Or the lack thereof.

“In exchange for those lands,” Lorenz repeated, in a steady voice, “you will renounce your claims to the Alliance?” It was a cold voice. 

It would free Lorenz of what Duke Riegan had orchestrated, if the exchange was fair, equitable; in front of every witness a political deal, done without feeling. Lorenz was, first, the Alliance's leader. 

“That’s right.” 

The council breathed in relief. Such an easy request, wasn’t it? 

Nothing could compare to the waiting that followed. Seconds stretching into minutes of silence that crept over the length of the table and thickened so it felt he stood within touching distance from Lorenz, and not on the other side of the room. 

Just do it quickly, do it fast, before feeling catches on. It was said when setting a bone straight, or cutting off an arm. 

Put like that, Lorenz could not refuse. Not in front of the council and the members of the Roundtable, without betraying that his interests were not only those of Leicester. But if he accepted Claude’s proposal he may never see him again. Not only that. Lorenz remembered: One land, one people _._ Lorenz said, “No.” 

He could see what it was that Claude was doing. He started, mercilessly, to hinder his schemes. “The Alliance will not enter agreements until every piece of leverage is on the table. What of the evidence against Count Gloucester in your possession?” 

“The evidence?” It was threaded through with the quickening of surprise. 

“Yes. The Alliance Roundtable will need it to judge and condemn my father. What does Almyra ask in exchange for it?”

He had only seen it in Claude’s hands for a moment. It may very well be that Judith had it now, and was probably meant to give it to Lorenz later, in private. His council would have been none the wiser—no longer. Claude could not say any of those things to a room full of his Almyran generals and his opposition from Leicester. Neither could Judith admit to it. 

Lorenz went on, “Furthermore, what of the compensation for the harms done by Count Gloucester against the crown prince?” 

Even from across the length of the table, Lorenz saw Claude’s eyes flash. 

“Lady Judith will, I am sure, attest to it, as she too suffered the persecution my father sent after your entourage.” 

“Of course.” Claude half laughed, mirthlessly. “So many reparations! The lands for my claims on the house of Riegan, as I already said.” This was what he’d planned. The rest he made up on the go, and Lorenz’s breath caught as he watched the well-oiled wheels seamlessly turning, despite the bitter curl to Claude’s lips. “A say in Count Gloucester’s fate in exchange for the evidence.” 

“Good. We can accept that,” Edmund muttered by his side. 

But Lorenz was waiting for the third, his heart a drum of beaten brass. “And for the perjuries against your person, Your Highness?”

A muscle working at his jaw, Claude’s head turned to quietly consult with Nader. 

Then his eyes were somewhere on Lorenz’s face again, and his blood rushed his ears. Claude said, “Passage through the northern gulf and trade with Sreng.” 

And as Edmund relaxed, content with the demand, the brass cracked inside Lorenz. He said, “No.” 

A gasp rose from the council. Edmund was already bending his head to whisper in his ear. Lorenz rose. “No. That route fills our coffers every spring. Is there anything else you would accept?” 

Say it. Ask for the Locket, as you want. As I know you want. 

“Well, if not that, we would accept passage over the Alliance on an airborne route towards Albinea.” Claude said it, leaning back on his chair with a jaunty air. Then, rounding his eyes, “You do not keep any commerce with Albinea, do you?” 

He knew perfectly well they did not. “What of Faerghus?” Lorenz managed to ask through gritted teeth. “You would need to open negotiations with the king.” 

“Not a problem. It is only the Alliance that resists Almyran communications.” 

Lorenz flushed, heated under his clothes. He had played right into his hands. 

“We will...deliberate on that matter.” The words were what Claude had been pressing to hear, as good as a confirmation. 

They reached him and he nodded in acquiesce, but his skin was pale. The line of his jaw clenched against whatever he was holding back. Lorenz was not done. 

“But the Alliance cannot go empty-handed,” Lorenz said, both a last intake of breath and the hand closing the airway, when Claude thought the deal was cut, the bloody blade wholly through. 

Nader huffed out an annoyed breath. All Claude did was arch an eyebrow, to erase the tension of his frown. “Can’t it?” 

“You came to our realm under false pretences.” On his feet, and though ruffled after the trial, Lorenz painted the perfect picture of nobility, his broad shoulders steady, his hands gesticulating at his measured pace. But if one knew to pay attention, he sounded slightly clipped. “You have knowledge of the workings of the Alliance that could do great harm should you decide there is more land you want. It would only be fair that an ambassador be allowed in your court, to keep an open line of communication and prevent any more surprises to occur between our countries.” 

It was a request Lorenz’s council could not belittle. Not even Edmund breathed a sound. On his own side of the table, it was another matter. Nader had a hand around his arm to call his attention as he started whispering in his ear. 

Only two things could make of that an equable exchange. The first was an Almyran ambassador sent to Derdriu, which was beyond his power to give, and his father would never allow. The second was what Lorenz wanted him to ask. Which Lorenz would never be able to give in full, but he would be able to open its gates to Almyran forces: not an ambassadorship, but the roots of a coalition. From there, start building. 

Give me the Locket. 

It was perfect. It was what he’d lain awake at night dreaming of, once. It was a sharp ache, to see it now so fully and still have to let it go.

It was risking too much, and the more he thought of it the closer he was to risk it all. Claude cut it short. He had, very simply, put forth the terms for this to be easy, and Lorenz was resisting it with every inch of his being. And every time he pulled, something tore. “Perhaps over time,” he said, keeping his voice leashed, “that is a request we will be able to meet. Not for now.” 

Lorenz had thought of this plan, and it had been the only thing keeping hope alive while he was at his father’s mercy. It was what he would have told Claude, had he bothered to ask. Claude’s words struck a match inside Lorenz. He was not the only one angry, now, no matter how well Claude hid it. 

“Then we are at an impasse, I fear. The Alliance grants Almyra’s wishes, but it is not a two-way road?” 

Claude curled his lips. Slowly he got to his feet, gazing over those present until his eyes met those of Lorenz. And held there, at last coming together—

at once half undone

—and he could see, as Claude took a deep breath, the first visible sign he was made of flesh since Lorenz had walked through the door.

It was what Claude had been trying to avoid. And now he was angry that he had not been ready for Lorenz’s mule-headed stubbornness. For the relentless force of his made up mind recklessly trying to force Claude’s hand, with no thought to his own future or safety. “Perhaps if _the Archduke_ were to ask for something else?” Claude leaned on his hands spread on the table, keeping every muscle locked. 

“Are there any suggestions, _Your Highness?”_

“I think you will find me generous. Within reason.” It was a warning. Lorenz’s blood boiled. 

He packed it behind a smile. “Oh, of course: within reason. It would not do to be without it.” 

“Yes,” said Claude, eyes narrowed, “we agree on that.”

“Do we? It seems there is scarce ground where we see eye to eye. Maybe if you were to widen the scope of your starting plan you would find some—” 

“—grounds? And here I thought we were trying to avoid unlawfully taking each other’s lands.” 

_“Perhaps,”_ Edmund hurriedly cut in, a second before Lorenz released the furious breath he’d taken, “a moment of recess would do us well.” 

The moment of recess changed nothing. When they returned—and by then it was dinner time, the servants rolling into the war room dish after dish—they kept getting stuck. Claude would not ask for the Locket, and Lorenz could not very well offer it in front of his councilors. No argument they had had before had prepared them for this one, because they had never before stood on truly opposite sides. Their councilors had often pushed them towards agreement, if only so that the afternoon sessions would end before midnight. But that had been a long time ago, and Claude was pretending nothing of it had happened. Coldly, he kept sidestepping Lorenz’s proposals, even when every coiled muscle, every measured movement of his hands told Lorenz he knew what Lorenz wanted him to say. And still, he refused. It stopped being painful and became a dizzying mix of anger and frustration, until all Lorenz wanted to do was push everyone out of the room. 

Except, he would not need to. 

Little by little, this councilor and that one started leaving. Hilda and Marianne did not stay past midnight, and even on the Almyran side the stoic generals, who had a hard flight on their backs, started hiding yawns behind their hands. If Lorenz held on, managed to keep his grip on Claude for a little while longer, then maybe, maybe…

He found he was not even exhausted anymore, Claude’s quick mind raising his in an endless chase that went in circles and circles. 

Until the moment it’d finish, and another began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The weird paragraph breaks are on purpose btw, in case anyone is wondering! I was trying to do something that reflected the quick change of POV and the speed of the scene?? I don't think ao3's format was the best for this, but it was An Attempt)


	19. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this chapter: (mild spoilers I guess?) 
> 
> \- Sexual content ;)  
> (I decided not to change the rating bc I don't think I went into explicit territory, but if someone disagrees I would have no trouble changing the rating!)

Edmund was the last to leave, and only after Claude had had to tell Nader to go to bed, concerned he’d have to carry him afterward otherwise. 

And now they were alone. Surely outside Nader had someone keeping watch. It would give Edmund a valid reason to put one of his soldiers at the door, too. He and Lorenz would not be the only ones sleepless, it appeared, or forced to look at the opposite wall and the tapestries hanging there and do nothing, as nothing happened—for nothing could be done. Lorenz refused to see reason. 

But the room was empty. And so inside, they were alone. Claude took a sip of water, and then another. Lorenz started stacking documents in a neat pile, the sharp rustle of this economical burst of activity the only sound in the room after they had spoken themselves hoarse; his the only lilting shadows as the guttering candles burned, and burned. And Claude drank. He wished it were wine. The glass emptied. 

Between deciding to serve himself more and moving his arm, the stillness fractured: Lorenz pushed his chair back and rose. On the carpeted floors, no sound went with the action. No uncompromising scraping on marble tiles to announce the ending of their separate deliberation, to deliver the return to the negotiations. But instead of speaking, Lorenz calmly walked to the door. It was then that the sound, as that at the starting line of a race, came. The shot of the lock being drawn in place fell with finality across the room. 

Much like in a race, it signaled a beginning, of a kind. 

“Nobody is interrupting us until you minutely explain to me what in the Goddess’ name you are doing.” 

Claude’s heart thudded inside his chest, once; twice its force surprised him, and then that too he reined in, even though for a moment the candles seemed to double their intensity instead of growing dimmer as the wax dripped. It might have been the sudden sound, as startling in the silence as a Thoron bolt in a battlefield. If he pretended that was the reason, it was easier to will it all away. He had told himself he would do this with rationality, within reason. Lorenz’s anger was enough emotion for the both of them. He would not forget that again. 

He found he was standing, too. “I am simply in the habit of trying to avoid war.” 

It was the wrong tone. He knew it at once, as Lorenz’s expression shuttered further. That was what happened. What always happened. A mask of poised pale composure. But the eyes—

Lorenz closed his eyes for a moment, then he spoke. “You offered to renounce your birthrights as Riegan heir to avoid war? I fail to see how that appeases Almyra in any way.”

They looked at each other, the table between them. Lorenz’s glare bright, the light pooled there in the stones of his eyes. Eyes that had begged to understand during the length of the negotiations, that now, after every rebuttal against clarity and understanding, had hardened to withstand it. To withstand what Claude would say. Claude said: “It does not work if you leave out the rest of the deal?” 

“What, the lands you want back?” The words poured forth, carrying Lorenz a step forward. “Almyra already had the rights to lay claim over those, after what my father did! I am surprised Nader did not put a bag over your head and removed you from the room to prevent you from butchering this negotiation.”

“I did not know you held such concern for my homeland, but I can assure you Almyra won’t suffer from anything I did today. And you talk of Nader? Nader wants nothing from Leicester. In case you hadn't noticed, Almyra is perfectly self-sufficient in times when the Alliance leaves it well enough alone.”

“Oh I noticed. I noticed it is a perfectly independent kingdom with a prince who has raised self-sufficiency to an art form.” 

It stung. It shouldn’t have stung. “I think you’ll find it is a useful position in politics.”

“Of course, politics,” he spat out the word. “That is how you have decided to play it. As if we were strangers. As if we meant nothing to one another. You are offering to rend the last months of our lives to shreds.”

Claude moved closer, so as not to shout. “I am not trying to destroy anything. I am trying to protect it.” 

“No. You are trying to protect  _ me,”  _ Lorenz hissed. He too knew that a closed door may not be enough against eavesdroppers—they stood an arm’s distance away from one another. “And I don’t want you to, as if I were somehow incapable, in need of your royal protection!”

But it was habit, too. During all their arguments and the discussions they had had since they’d met—and wed—they had sat on the same side of the room. 

“Your court did let your father organize a coup, forgive me if I am cautious,” Claude countered, the words coming out too harsh, an accusation. Lorenz’s eyes narrowed. “And I know what that’s like,” he added, measured—he did not want to fight. Opposing Lorenz had never been a hardship, it had been the air he breathed those first months—it would bring back images, thoughts, memories; it would bring pain. “I know what it is to not feel safe in your own home. I don’t want that for you, and I found the way to solve it—”

“It is not my court, it is ours.”

He had realized, some hours ago, Lorenz would not let it be easy. Claude said, “It can’t be, not anymore.” Before Lorenz could say anything else, he’d turned away. Such a simple room, in the evening, rendered bare, except for the fire. He found he’d stepped closer to the hearth, the logs burning there. 

“That is not what you said,” he heard, barely anything more than the rustle of the flames licking away the pieces of wood. A fire, so carefully built. Lorenz said, “What you said before you left. You said that it could be one land, one people.” The fire sputtered up an orange wisp. Offered to the air, it vanished. Lorenz said, “And you were right. The answer is the Locket, if we were to pact, to divide it between the two realms… We just need time—”

His closed throat made a sound when he forced air through it. “Time?” he asked. It crackled, much like the burning at his feet. “There’s none left.” The heat of the flames, so near, poured weightless on his skin, his bare face; a balm erasing any expression. “Do you mean to put Nader and Edmund in a box and tell them to wait it out?” His voice felt steady. He turned and, half blind after staring into the fire, searched Lorenz. “Cyril could play the lute for them."

“Don’t be facetious.” 

“You’re right. Not a box, that would not behoove a proper host. Maybe the courtyard? So that we can argue and fight and yell at each other and they can—”

“I am doing all the arguing. You are,” he said in a furious whisper, because he was trying not to raise his voice, “being facetious.” 

“Alright, I’ll stop.” He could not make out Lorenz’s face. “Let’s speak truthfully,” he proposed, leaning a shoulder against the mantelpiece, outside of the searing heat. “Truthfully, a lot has happened since we last saw each other. Truthfully, I thought when you said you couldn't see a way for us, you meant there was no way for us.”

“And I am telling you now that there is. I-I meant to apologize properly, and you did not let me. I wanted to talk to you in private but you insisted upon this—” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “This spurious negotiation. You left me no opportunity to tell you that I was wrong.” 

“Not at all. Look at all that’s happened since I came to Derdriu. Your House is in shambles, you were at your father’s mercy for days,  _ anything— _ ” Awfully, the word snapped in two. It was as if his muscles forgot what came after inhaling. He adamantly reminded them. “Anything could have happened to you,” he managed this time, “and I was not here when the worst hit. Do you want to know what I was doing? I was threatening your mother with a knife.”

“You saved me! You brought everything we needed to win to the trial— Oh, I see.” He too had his arms crossed. “Did you mean me to feel scandalised about my mother? Do not concern yourself: she did not fail to mention that she had you brought bleeding and unconscious into her camp.” Lorenz scoffed. “You were the one who almost died, more than once! And I could do nothing to stop it. Who knows, maybe there are more family members of mine intent on doing you harm, is that it? Because if I am just some reminder of all that has gone wrong with your plans—”

It was too ridiculous. Claude pushed away from the wall. “Gods save me from a procession of Gloucester stubbornness,” he snapped, something frosting under his skin. He wanted it to be anger. “Your father was child’s play, compared to everyone who will try to keep me from the throne. You do not still think that was the first time someone made an attempt at my life?” Stripped in the light, understanding sank in, by stages. Lorenz opened his mouth. Then, blood leaving his face, he closed it. “You already went through it once. How many more times do you think you could stand to suffer seeing me bleed out? Or better, having to read about it in a letter?” 

He had never willingly told anybody. But what better than this? Gentleness plays no part in straightening a broken bone, as he knew well. Cold, bloodless, that was the way to do it. And cold, fear was that too. 

Lorenz took one step forward. He said, “As often as you would bear looking at me and seeing the rotten blood that runs through my veins.” He said, without any pity for either of them, “As many times as you would endure my waking you after a nightmare where I am the one wielding the assassin’s knife.” 

He’d known, before all hell broke loose and he left for the border, that Lorenz had not been sleeping well. But now hearing the reality of it stripped to its barest foundations stunned him. The harsh silence which followed was the kind he had tried to avoid; avoid by giving everything he had to give, every fear, and shock, and sordid piece of truth of a life Lorenz shouldn’t want to have anything to do with. And Lorenz had risen to match him, and so in the arid silence they stood facing one another, divested of what made each separate part. The repressed cadence of Lorenz’s breathing, selfsame to his own; the place the two met, simmering. He saw ice melting on the colourful petals of a weed pushing past winter's last freeze. He'd been foolish enough to pluck it, once. 

Not anymore. 

“This isn't how I wanted to do things.” 

“No. You would rather hide everything that does not suit you,” Lorenz answered. “Tell me what the earring means.” 

“You want me to yell out its meaning?” His voice went high-pitched with disbelief. “Now, like this.” 

“Since this is how we are doing things.” 

“Fine.” He did not step back, even though they were so close he could see the orange ghost of the fire in Lorenz’s eyes. It made them lambent, luminous, and Claude said, looking into them, “It is an ancient tradition. The gold comes from the only mines of the kingdom, and it has to be gold: you can melt it, change its shape, that it will remain; unaltered and enduring, it remains.” Speaking the words left him disencumbered, a giant burden put down. Only afterwards once the muscles unlock, they ache, they tremble. He said, “The carving— The carving means oath. Because it is not a gift, it is a promise. It is a promise, because you ask something in turn.”

Lorenz went on, incessant. "And what did you ask of me in turn? I feel I should know."

He scoffed, instead of imploring, Not this, not this. "It doesn't matter." 

_ "It doesn't matter?” _ Lorenz said it, his voice cracking. He raised an unsteady hand and started removing it. “Here, then. Take it back to your future princess. I don’t want a reminder of what I lost. I don’t need it. It’s not as if I could ever forget you, even if I wanted to!”

Before any thought or order formed, before he was conscious of it, his hand shot forward to grab Lorenz’s wrist, withhold the movement of his hand. And Lorenz did not break free, even though he could have. 

He could have, all along, broken free. 

Of his father, his house’s duties, his position, his marriage. 

Instead he fought. When things got hard, Lorenz did not give up. Why had he expected it to be different when it came to him?

_ “ _ There will be no princess. _ ” _ Even the thought of it, of promising someone the hollow place that would be left inside his chest if he never saw Lorenz again, sickened him. 

Their eyes met, held (again, again) over Claude’s grasp; over this distance, this awful, dangerous distance, which was stabbing distance: one for all things sharp and painful, for spillages, be it of blood, or secrets, or both; one of crystalline, moth-winged fragility, so easy could it be either bridged, or forever carved farther apart. A wrong breath would carry them someplace else. 

But no, that had already happened. Claude heard it.

“Stop trying to rip yourself out of my life.” It was quiet, but not for that did it carry any less strength. “And stop thinking. Stop thinking of ways to fix what doesn’t need fixing. This whole act is only fooling yourself. I remember—” Lorenz cut himself off. 

He did not recognize his own voice as he said, “You remember what?” He didn’t think he was fooling anybody, not anymore. 

“The way you kissed me.” Lorenz’s chest rose and fell with every unwieldy breath. “How you touched me.” 

When Claude let go of his wrist Lorenz took one unsteady step back. It did not change anything—it was too late. “I can hear your breathing,” Claude said, almost in wonder. 

“It is anger,” Lorenz said, misunderstanding that Claude had released him. He was holding himself very still, all of him except for the necessary yielding of his chest to air. “You infuriate me like this.” 

“Now that’s a lie.” 

“And  _ you  _ would know.” 

“Yes,” said Claude. Lorenz started turning away, but froze at Claude’s next words. “Because you can hear my breathing, too, can’t you?” He could feel it, a tight mould around each breath leaving his chest. Binding him, binding them both. The last time, it had been frantic because they had been hiding. Now there was nowhere to hide. Claude stepped forward, into Lorenz’s space so that they stood inches apart, closer than before. Following, when Lorenz’s immediate response was to step back. Claude said, “No, it is not anger.” 

It was a shock to his whole body, when Lorenz’s gaze fell to his lips. He hadn’t allowed himself this unmanageable possibility: that Lorenz would not only be willing to risk everything time and time again, and fight Claude’s every play and contingency to fix what he’d thought wronged; but that through it all the path would remain unchanged, that he could use every nasty trick he knew to make Lorenz let him go, bring a semblance of order back into his life, and Lorenz’s feelings would not change. That Lorenz would choose him, again. Claude remembered too. 

“What are you doing?” Lorenz said, a murmur between them. 

A thousand answers ready at his lips. The one, the only one that seemed truth: “Not thinking.” And he cupped the back of Lorenz’s neck with a hand. As he pulled already Lorenz’s body was bending to meet him.

Maybe he had heard it in Claude’s voice, in the rapid cadence of his breath during that second of stillness, selfsame to his and their bodies a mirror to each other; maybe he too was done arguing, not even Claude knew the words for this, apology and acquiesce both. And so the tension that had crested between them melted away into shuddering fragments of simplicity instead; loud and soundless, of Claude pressing his lips to Lorenz’s, and Lorenz teetering on the edge of surprise, of recognition, then diving in, one hand curled around Claude's arm as if to anchor him there. Him, or himself. And it was in fragments that the world tilted back on its axis. It moved—a splintered sound leaving Lorenz’s mouth, as his lips parted; the space between their bodies consumed, fractions of touch scattered in its place. 

And every word they hadn’t been able to say, not as the figures they were supposed to be for their people, was in that kiss. It had been forming in Claude since he saw the earring, that flare of hope. But he’d always thought his plans were failsafe, this no less than the rest even if it hurt more than anything. 

But it made sense, that if he were to fail at anything it would be at preventing this: his fingers buried in Lorenz’s silky hair, his hand down the line of the tapering waist. Lorenz clutched his shoulders to him, bringing him closer to the heat of his body. It was searing, it was flaying; raw because, instead of separate otherness they were, at last, bare to one another. 

A hand touched his neck, his cheek. It was almost discomfiting, to open his eyes and see edges. 

Lorenz said, breathing through parted lips, “This does not mean I am agreeing to let you go.” It came out threaded with residual anger. 

He dragged Lorenz back down. “You’ve never agreed with me one day in your life,” the words murmured against the soft curve of Lorenz’s lips.

“You’re hardly any better,” Lorenz shot back, but with his fingers already wound through Claude’s hair, a tight grip at the back of his head to keep him in place, and then pull him up. 

The next kiss was inevitable. One burning log stumbling into the flames after hours of resisting the distant flicker of the fire. Even through the layers of clothes, touching Lorenz like this was heady—so different from the restraint and the confusion of before. Claude had tried to convince himself not to want him, had tried to imagine not missing him. He had failed at both and, in doing so, never prepared for the moment when he’d actually be able to feel the shudders of Lorenz's body against him and lack any reason to stop, to withhold the want to push closer, to search for more. 

His mouth so near the hummingbird pulse under the bone of Lorenz’s jaw, then the delving for a taste, a taste not foreign, and even that simple fact of reacquaintance brought its own surge of heat. The wash of perfume ever-present there a combination of alluring scents by now so familiar each had ceased to exist and would instead bring to mind one name, one man; more than that: an alloy of liquid memories and volatile discoveries beaten into the shape of endurance. And this, this would withstand, hold strong, hardened as metal. And kissing Lorenz it came to him that not any of his words, his deeds, could erase this certainty. For months it had been a knowledge in the making, no longer. 

A half-formed sound escaped from between Lorenz’s lips. A quarter of a sigh, carrying something both unsayable and ineludible. Pleasure, it carried; the faintest of kindlings as of yet. But what unfurled had never before held such a distinct shape for Claude, for that same frantic thrill beat in Claude’s blood. Looking down, he saw a mark, blooming where his mouth had been. 

“Your skin shows everything,” Claude murmured, almost dizzy. Despite the words he did not restrain the movement of his fingers, the urgent unlacing of Lorenz’s neckcloth opening the collar of his doublet. As the lapels parted, from neck to waist, white silk showed. 

“The marks can be covered,” Claude heard, and allowed himself for a beat to luxuriate, even lightheaded as he was from Lorenz’s relentless touch, on what the words implied, on the unchecked inflection with which he said them. To appreciate, too, the wash of flushed skin, colour vivid over Lorenz’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re saying you want me to?” He raised his head to take Lorenz’s lower lip between his teeth, lightly, lightly. 

Lorenz’s ribcage flared under Claude’s palm; a sharp, silent gasp all the warning before Claude found himself thoroughly kissed. “I want you to, if you know that I am not pretending anymore, if you stop trying to bury it in politics.” His voice spilt forward molded around erratic breaths that would have been answer enough. “I know what you want.”

_ I know what you want,  _ because here was one thing Claude had never faked. And the one he had was already naked, held in the space between their eyes. Claude didn’t need to ask it. Maybe that was why he did at all. 

He touched the corner of Lorenz’s lips with his thumb. “Say my name.” 

Sound ceased for a second, all except for the rushing blood that rustled against his eardrums. That, too, disappeared—

A shape between their mouths. 

“Khalid,” Lorenz murmured. 

Lorenz had never spoken it before, not in the long hours of negotiations. It mattered for a reason Claude understood afterward, in the shape of Lorenz's voice around it. As if he had asked because Lorenz was always supposed to say it, and Lorenz wouldn’t have said it unless he asked. On his lips, it wasn't just his name; almost its own little language, it became: the name, and the man who spoke it without hesitation.

Almost before Lorenz was done uttering the name, word breaking between them until half of it didn’t belong to Claude anymore, he was drawing Lorenz closer. Hands on both sides of his face and angling his head to brush their lips together, kiss flaying of every unnecessary layer that may have remained, until what was recognizable in it, such as the shape of Lorenz’s lips and the warmth of his body, such as the feeling inside Claude’s chest, turned into something they hadn’t allowed before. 

Such as the delicate fabric of Lorenz’s shirt, which hid nothing of the live warmth beneath, pressed to the eager slide of Claude’s hands. The plunging neckline showed heightened colour pouring down the pale column of the throat. It was uncharted skin, with an impression of cloth tightly wrapped around it. This time, there was no reason to forgo the urge to press an open-mouthed kiss there. Lorenz's answer was a wordless exhalation of air that Claude did his best, with every swipe of his tongue and every hint of teeth, to replicate. Even the sounds wrested from Lorenz’s throat before they could be given voice managed to pool deep under his skin, joining the too fast torrent of his blood that pulsed through his veins with one undeniable purpose, unique in its intensity. 

Unique, also, in everything else. Because this was Lorenz, his untouchable husband, the man he’d come to trust despite himself, and his were the eyes through which he’d wanted to see the most precious parts of his homeland, of the whole world. 

The undershirt, made of expensive silk, was liquid in his hands, was a pool at his feet. And first with fingertips that were unsteady, then the glide of a spread palm, and then finally with his mouth, he explored Lorenz’s bare chest, the miracle of it under his hands. 

Lorenz impatiently fought the jacket off his shoulders, reacquainting himself with the breadth of Claude’s shoulders. Their path down his back relentlessly unearthing what Claude had been too scared to let himself feel the last time Lorenz had touched him like this. Long-fingered hands, slender and demanding traveling down to reach and untuck his shirt from his pants, reach underneath. 

Momentum born of instinct made him press closer, his teeth marking the skin under a collarbone, and closer, until Lorenz had to take one, two steps back to gain his balance. The slightest jolt brought them inches apart, in awareness, as the back of Lorenz’s thighs met the edge of the war table. 

“We should talk—” Lorenz pushed the words out past the pressurized air that was heavy between them. “Talk about what we will do tomorrow.” 

Deliberately slow, Claude bent his head again. “I can hardly think and you want me to talk? No, that's a lie,” he confessed, lips trailing a path across Lorenz’s collarbones. “I can think about one thing, and one thing alone. Since I heard you during the trial, since I saw you safe. Even before. I could lose myself thinking about you every day of my life, as if there was nothing else in the world.” 

The flesh under his lips quivered: a tangible answer to his admission or to his touch, maybe both. Then as he moved lower it crested into pure sound—and because he’d anticipated it, and used a hint of teeth against Lorenz’s nipple, the sound fractured. It scattered over Lorenz’s skin in a series of pinpricks, a distinct shudder and the muscles that moved in Lorenz’s arm, his hand, to press Claude to the spot in a wordless plea. 

Claude did not need to be asked. He was no longer holding onto the frayed edges of a terrible secret, he could hold Lorenz without hesitation. Find the spot where their bodies aligned, the unyielding table keeping Lorenz’s body pinned against his. Press even closer, as near as Lorenz would have him. And when that was not enough: his thighs parting so Claude, spurred on by hands clutching his hair, his backside, could bridge that virtual distance. He grabbed Lorenz's thigh and lifted it to surround his hips.

Lorenz deliberately kept it there, using it to pull Claude's hips against him. An unbridled sound spilled from Claude’s throat, voice wordlessly given to pleasure. It matched Lorenz’s liquid gasp as they moved together, with Claude’s fingers sinking into the flesh of his thigh. A gripping clutch to anchor himself to the dizzying sensation licking up his spine, made even more intense by the wet lips on his throat. The ragged breaths Lorenz could not control, too, as Claude slid his hand between their bodies. His fingertips skimming down Lorenz’s breastbone, past the shuddering flex of his diaphragm, and further down in a diagonal line that ended over the row of tiny buttons on the side of his high-waisted pants. Oh-so-easily, they loosened, one by one, in a slow, breathless descent that exposed a triangle of soft, unmarred skin, the dip of the waist, and the shelve of a narrow hip. Claude drove his hand into the opening, there under the restricting fabric and over the heated flesh, letting his fingers follow down the line of Lorenz's lower back. 

His hips twitched forward against Claude's, seeking and meeting sweet friction as his voice lost its shape around a moan, his fingers tangled in Claude’s hair in a blissful handful—his shallow breaths enough to guide the canter of Claude’s hips, the path and pace of his hand. 

Claude kissed a path up his throat following the trail of flushed, hot skin to Lorenz’s slack mouth. 

It was there that Lorenz held him back, his hand on his chest. “This isn’t—” he panted. “I-I don’t want one night.” 

His voice was rough, raw as his lips, from kissing; from the build up and the dizzying anticipation, months in the making. Claude took his mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss, shuddering as Lorenz’s lips yielded to it, the eager, breathless parting to allow him to feel the slide of Lorenz’s tongue against his. 

“You think I could do that?” he said, after. Lorenz’s heavy-lidded gaze veiled by lashes searching him, deep as any kiss. 

“You seemed determined never to see me again, one moment ago.” 

“Yes, determined. But not ready, never that.” He brushed Lorenz’s hair back from his face, the earring dangling from his ear almost a physical sensation on Claude’s skin, burrowing in. “I thought I would make it easier,” he admitted. “For you to let me go.” 

“Do you want me to do that?” Lorenz curled his fingers over the half undone lacings of Claude’s shirt. “Let you go?”

“What does it look like?” Claude said, leaning in to taste the shell of Lorenz’s ear. 

“Answer the question, for once in—” 

“All right, all right!” A quiet laugh curled out of him, painting a path of goosebumps up Lorenz’s slender neck, to his mouth. “Don’t, then. Don’t let me go. Even if things get difficult,” he told him. Helplessly. Selfishly. “Even if it sometimes hurts, please don't let me go. I’m done making it easy.” Then, angling his thigh between Lorenz’s legs, “I thought you’d realised that.”

Lorenz huffed a short breath against Claude’s lips. “This isn’t what I would call difficult.” His hands were pushing the shirt over his head. 

He should have done this, when he first saw Lorenz in that courtyard, safe and alive and with faith and strength in his eyes. Now he was unwilling to wait any longer, his hand roaming under Lorenz’s pants, a movement restricted and teasing more than anything until Lorenz started pulling them off. Claude helped him peel off the tight fit, kneeling to kiss his stomach, the top of Lorenz’s thighs as they were exposed. 

Looking up at his face, he wrapped his fingers around his cock, the hard velvet length of it responding to the barest brush of thumb. He couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “I feel like a very inattentive husband,” he said, “only doing this now.”

It hit him, a molten sort of pressure, as he realized Lorenz was having some trouble answering him with words. The back of his hand pressing against his mouth. He decided to relieve him of the effort entirely: he wrapped an arm around one of those slender thighs and put it over his shoulder. Then he lifted Lorenz off the floor and tilted him back to lie on the table behind him. On this table where their forebears had discussed war for hundreds of years. 

Lorenz’s fingers tightened around his shoulders. “This is the war table!” he gasped. 

“Is that an observation or…”—he bent his head, and Lorenz gasped again, if for a different reason—“a complaint?” 

_ “A—Ah—”  _ Claude lifted his head, and Lorenz managed, ragged, “An observation.” 

“Good.” 

Lorenz’s laugh crested into a startled exhalation. His head thudded back on the table. 

He couldn’t see his face as he applied his mouth to the fine skin of the inside of his thighs, but he could hear him. Hear the papers crushed under Lorenz’s body, the inkwells knocked away by the uncontrolled jerk of his hands trying to find purchase on the flat surface of the table, the parchment crumpled in one of his fists. Then he felt his fingers buried in his hair, as his breaths shaped into a broken version of his name. There was a moment the tension crested, his lips hovering over Lorenz’s cock, and then he took it in his mouth. Lorenz’s quickening sighs melted into a sob of harsh drawn breath. 

Into a cresting, staccato relief of sound that poured forth coaxed by every glide of tongue and lips. But it was still, up to a point, contained, he could tell, by the naked tremors he felt running through Lorenz’s muscles as he pinned his hips to the flat surface of table: every sound came wrested from Lorenz’s poised control—the same discipline of will he’d watched for months, now crumbling at the pressure of his mouth. He wanted to see pleasure wash over Lorenz in waves as relentless as the heat curling in his blood at the weight of him upon his tongue. Those lean limbs melting with release, and Lorenz’s voice given to it. A hummed sound fitted itself around Lorenz’s cock as Claude chased every little gasp, every nerve peeled raw at the thought that Lorenz was a hair’s breadth from coming undone inside his mouth. 

He was calling his name in a breathless voice. Claude heard, even, a curse; a simple enough swear that sounded awfully dirty coming from Lorenz. 

“Stop, stop,” Lorenz finally panted out, pulling his hair. 

“You ok there?” Claude asked, half amused at Lorenz’s urgent warnings, as if Claude had not intended to give him that release he had been approaching before he cut it short. 

Though reluctant to give up the taste of Lorenz in his mouth, he raised his head, spreading his hands on the table to hold his body up. It was to find an arm flung above Lorenz’s head, an unmistakable molten flush across his face, traveling down his neck to pour across the flexing cage of his chest. In his eyes a scintillating, almost feverish glow that reflected the fire. Gods, he was beautiful; always but especially, it turned out, in the grip of satisfaction, on the edge of yielding to it. And he found his mouth moving, telling him that. “You’re so beautiful. Gods, Lorenz. I should have told you the moment I saw you. I should have told you every day.” Pressing it to the plains of his stomach, the sharp line of a rib. And, “Tell me what you want. Anything. Anything you want.” He drew himself up again, to look at his face. His open, unguarded face, and the gaze tearing open the space between them. 

Lorenz said, a crease of some unnamed emotion in his brow. "I feel like I have everything already." 

Suddenly the need to be touched by him was too much. Not even to be touched in any particular way with the intention of release, just the simple, inexorable longing that announced itself with the weight of Lorenz's quiet admission, of his gaze intent on his face with the searing focus of a flame. 

He could barely move air in and out of his lungs, with the heaviness of anticipation alive in every cell shaping up his flesh as Lorenz gracefully curved his body to sit upright, then pushed away from the table and stood. 

Claude felt his throat move in a convulsive swallow. 

Fingers touched his cheek, a thumb brushing across his wet, bruised lips. Claude’s breath shuddered out of him, almost a tangible thing that would tell Lorenz everything there was to know. That same hand slid into his hair and with a possessive grip on the back of his neck drew him forward to claim a kiss. A kiss so slow, deliberate, that it served to underscore the reckless pace of his heart, as Lorenz moaned, tasting himself in Claude's mouth. 

And it wasn’t just one touch, which Lorenz gave him. He pressed the length of his body to Claude’s, not an inch of air between them, as if hoping to smother every restive longing ache and at once ignite a thousand more. Claude slid his hands around the lean expanse of his back to hold him close. 

“You’re still dressed,” Lorenz murmured against his lips, all those elegant vocals fractured into mere threads. 

Which was a much more composed thread than Claude’s own voice. He said, hoarse, “Half dressed.”

“That’s insufficient.” 

There was a brief moment of regret as he thought, with the small part of his mind still capable of thinking, that he should have done this properly. In a room, on a bed, that he may learn every inch of Lorenz’s body at his leisure, what he liked best. But the regret vanished, short-lived; his need now all that more demanding, as Lorenz walked him back, the thick velvet curtain between Claude’s back and the wall. Lorenz took them both in his hand, and Claude’s hips snapped forward, a ragged sound smothered against the side of Lorenz’s neck. 

His hand joined Lorenz’s. “Tomorrow,” he panted, his mouth running away from him. “Tomorrow I want to memorize every inch of you.” Halting the movement of their hands to a more deliberate, treacle-gradual slide. Lorenz’s low cry struck the side of his neck. “Slowly. Taking my time until you forget about every stupid thing I’ve done today.” 

There was a little wellspring of gladness inside him, that he could even say those words—tomorrow, time—and have Lorenz shudder to hear them. “Yes,” Lorenz only said, almost beyond words, “Yes.” His muscles tensing to press closer, and Claude didn’t know if he was answering his words or his touch, the pressure of his hand pulling tight around their cocks, or the slide of his other hand, making meaning explicit as his finger teased the entrance to his body. 

It was enough to be undone, except Claude wanted this never to end. Yet they moved together, inching closer and closer to the edge, Claude’s pleasure spilling in a murmured torrent of gibberish, until, “Like this,” Lorenz breathlessly said. Where it had seemed a joining would be impossible he made one that punched the breath out of Claude’s chest. Lorenz had guided him between his thighs. Claude’s cock glided between them, into the tight space made of sweat-slicked pressure.  _ “Fuck—” _ he hissed, his hips snapping forward. “Ah. That’s— That’s smart. That’s good.  _ Fuck _ . You feel amazing.” It was an endless torrent. His name, too.  _ Lorenz. Lorenz.  _ Suddenly a new word in his mouth, against Lorenz’s breastbone. It crested into desperation. He wasn't going to last. “What do you need. Is this enough?” he asked Lorenz, biting back a drawn-out groan. He could feel the hard line of Lorenz's cock finding friction against his stomach, the little shivers and raw whimpers, every time Claude's hips snapped forward to bury himself between his thighs, that mimicked his own building need. When Claude rubbed his finger between Lorenz’s cheeks and clasped a hand around his cock, his cry was all he needed as answer. 

It was better than amazing, with the wall behind to brace his shoulders for support of the full grind, deep, Lorenz tightening, and soon they had their shared rhythm. The easy pull of Lorenz’s body commanding the pulse of blood that ran brimming and thick through his veins, the places their bodies gave way to one another with the weight of muscles tensing, arching—it wasn't just physical pleasure. That mutual yielding was like being ground to dust, the pleasurable ache of dismantling settled deep within Claude's bones, as Lorenz wrapped his arms around him, crying out and shuddering when climax overtook him. His release was all it took for him—he followed over the edge, the tension melting out of every muscle until it seemed he'd fold right into Lorenz's being. 

  
  
  


It was some time later that it came to him. Hours into the deep dark of night that in that room existed only as a second thought: they would no longer be married by tomorrow evening. 

He had just finished feeding the fire to keep it alive, keep its light warm upon their bare skin, and Lorenz was watching, propped on one elbow, the sumptuous lines of his unfurled limbs sated and almost lazy, as he returned to his side. Watching, eyes half-lidded and a little curl of appreciation to his lips, as Claude knelt, joined him on the nest they had made in front of the fire. No more than a few chair cushions and the velvet folds of the thick curtain Claude had snatched down on the sudden whim to lay Lorenz down on crimson luxury. Lorenz had, of course, gasped a complaint, until Claude was kissing the protests from his lips, was murmuring into the shell of his ear how he looked. 

“What?” Claude asked now, half laughing already at Lorenz's shameless staring. The thought of what would come tomorrow slipped away from his mind. 

“Oh nothing,” Lorenz hummed, stretching out a hand to pull Claude down over him. Claude could stare too, for all the time he was allowed, at Lorenz, bare except for two things: elegant velvet, the heavy folds of dark colour carving out his body on it as a wound; the gold that dangled from Lorenz’s earlobe throwing wisps of light as it reflected the fire. Three things, if one counted Claude’s own body, which Lorenz raised an arm to receive and draw near. Claude stretched by his side propped on one elbow, his arm wrapped around his waist, his fingers spread to memorize the ripples of muscles working under the skin, the ridges of ribs, vertebrae, hip. 

Lorenz was distractedly sliding his fingers over his chest. Then he said, “I cannot understand how no courtiers thought to make of you their lover, in all this time.” 

It got a surprised snort out of him. “And how do you know that did not happen,” he asked, with a provocative curl to his lips. 

“Hilarious, my dear.” 

My dear. 

“I think,” Lorenz went on, oblivious to the new swelling feeling in Claude’s chest, “I would have realised if you were out there philandering.” 

“Philandering!” Claude cackled. It was impossible to do anything but grin—a delighted, absurd grin—as he said, “They did try, you know.”

The arch smile on Lorenz’s lips somewhat froze. “They what.” 

“There were some elaborate gifts left in my rooms,” he recalled. “I didn’t really realise what they were supposed to mean. Cyril got rid of most of them without letting me touch them. Receiving anonymous gifts in Almyra can be a dangerous sport.” 

“I see.” Lorenz cleared his throat. “Well. That is very— I am glad you were properly appreciated.” 

Claude hummed. “Too bad someone else had caught my attention.” 

Lorenz now jerked back his head to better look at him. “Someone else?” 

“Oh, yes. And  _ he  _ didn’t even give me any gifts? Could barely stand me, in fact. Awfully critical of my wonderful ideas. Sometimes I wonder at my taste.” 

“I do not know what you saw in this person at all.” There was a playful narrowness to his eyes. 

“He does have some lovely legs,” Claude admitted, reaching down with a hand. “Very interesting ideas about the proper use of a war room.” He’d meant to go on, but Lorenz prevented him from doing much of anything as he pushed him to lay back and sat astride him. 

“It was you who decided to use the war table!” 

“Never going to be able to come here without thinking about it.” 

“Tomorrow you’d better.” He tutted without any real animosity behind it. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Who knows.” He felt drunk. Drunk with this moment and the seconds and the minutes which were touched by it, as if it were a wave cresting and spilling over every shore that made the core of his self. He said, “Call me my dear again.” 

When Lorenz demurred, Claude eagerly started to convince him. 

  
  


And it was even later that Lorenz said, “That was the last log.” 

They would need to leave soon. The shadow of it fell across Claude's mind again: tomorrow. What it would entail, even if they were, now, devoted to seeing the same thing through. 

“Let’s stay a while longer,” Claude said, curling his arm around Lorenz's shoulders tighter. “Tomorrow will be different,” he added quietly. 

“Because we will not be married anymore?”

“Are you alright with that? I can't see a way around it, both your council and my generals will demand it. It wouldn't be wise not to give in, in that at least, but if you'd rather—”

“No." Claude felt him shaking his head, his hair soft on the skin of his shoulder. "It's fine. The changes to the Locket will be hard enough on them. Besides," he continued in a strangely hesitant tone, "I think I would rather you marry me because you want to.” 

He wondered if Lorenz could feel how his heart beat at that. “Are you proposing?” he asked lightly, a smile in his voice. He watched red flood the bridge of Lorenz's nose before he turned his head away and pressed his face to Claude's chest.

"You pull the words from my lips. You always have," he complained. "But a proper proposal should leave no room for doubt," he briskly added, recovering. He leant away to look at Claude. "When I propose— If I propose, you will know it, Claude von Riegan." 

His lips twitched. "I'll make sure my answer leaves no room for doubt, too." 

"Good." Lorenz pressed a kiss to his forehead, then moved to sit upright. 

Claude held on to his wrist. Something was prodding the back of his mind. It had been, for a while, and with tomorrow so close he could not keep ignoring it. 

“Would you really not change anything?” He asked it, staring at the shadows coiling tight across the ceiling. “About how all this happened.” Lorenz had said it during the trial, and Claude had not known until that moment how much he’d needed to hear it. Because he may have imagined meeting Lorenz without the added pressure of the court intrigues, or the initial animosity of their forced marriage, may have wondered about another kind of sweet, aching discovery and unhurried courting, but it tore something inside him, to think of what that self would miss. Claude would not change anything either, but he wasn't the one who had almost lost everything. The shock after hearing Lorenz's words during the trial had left something inside gaping. "Did you really mean what you said?" 

Lorenz’s shadow fell across him, as he turned and bent over him, bracing a hand on the folds of the curtain. The other hand, on Claude's cheek, tapered the dry heat of the flames into something gentler. “Of course I did. I usually do, you must know. Mean what I say.” Claude found his lips curving despite himself. “I would not change anything… No; this, this I would.” He slid his hand down Claude's side, a trail that stopped just above his hip, on the pale line of tissue the knife had left behind. He had watched, as Lorenz’s eyes happened upon the scar as he unrobed him. That one had only been the first because Lorenz had already known it was there. The rest he’d acknowledged with a touch as careful, in the wordlessness of their heated breathing, as it might have been called reverent. “Why did you ask me that?”

“It keeps coming back to me.” He lifted a shoulder in a botched attempt to shrug while lying down. “Hearing you and not believing you as I made my way through the crowd.” Still he was not looking at Lorenz, but at the dark line of a lock of hair curling at his throat. “I was so sure I’d lost you, which is so stupid when you weren’t even mine in the first place.” He felt against his own body the way Lorenz filled his lungs to speak, the flare of the ribs. But his lips kept moving, spilling everything he’d kept buried. “Then seeing you. Seeing you and believing everything. Anything. I would have believed in anything that you said—I wanted to so much, even when I knew better, even when I had already decided to leave.” 

Unaware, he’d closed his eyes, and realized so at the unexpected pressure of Lorenz’s fingertips on his temple. First one, then the other. Speaking about it had brought all the sense of powerlessness back. He had been keeping so much locked tight, to prepare himself for the negotiations, he hadn't realised what it had cost him. And now utter relief at how it had turned out--how Lorenz had made it turn out--overwhelmed him.

The weightless brushing of a thumb landed across his eyelashes. Lorenz said, “And then the reinforcements arrived, and everything started happening too quickly. I understand.” 

“I shouldn't have brought this up, should I? Look at me,” he huffed out a choppy breath, trying to pull himself together, “what a mess.” 

Lorenz kissed the words from his mouth. A firm and gentle reminder of the place they were now, had finally arrived at now, not lessened by any of the things they carried. Then Lorenz wrapped him in his arms, his hand pressing his head to his shoulder. 

Claude buried his face there, saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the whole act during the negotiations. I know it hurt you." 

Lorenz hushed him gently. “It was what you thought you needed to do. I understood that. I was scared too,” he said, making Claude’s chest swell with too many feelings to name. He added, in a wobbly voice, “And it’s all right. I think the curtains are the bigger mess here.” 

It stole a sob of laughter from him. And all Claude could repeat, as he held fast to Lorenz, was, “What a mess.” Because it was something to say, even when it seemed, surrounded by the warmth Lorenz gave him, to be already mended. "I promise I won't go around pulling down curtains all over the palace." 

Lorenz huffed out a breath. "I did not tell you to stop."

The horizon, outside the bare windows, was brightening. When the new day began, they would not start building a new future—they would instead continue to do so, together. The foundations were strong enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. I can't believe I got this far!! It's absolutely been thanks to everyone who has read, kudos'ed, commented, and/or told me that they liked what I wrote. I can't thank you guys enough seriously ;.; As I said, it's not done yet!! I want to write one more chapter (and maybe an epilogue, we'll see), to tie things up, but the big PLOT THINGS are absolutely done so, HOPE YOU LIKED HOW IT TURNED OUT <3


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